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Summary
He’s got a dark blue jacket on, collar popped up. Lightwash jeans. When he turns around and glares out over the lot, squinting against the sun, Billy's guts sink into his seat and through the chassis to the pavement, splatting there like dropped ice cream. And then they swim up nauseatingly into his body again. Sweat prickles his neck, his hair stands up. For no good fucking reason at all. He can't say why and he can't tear his eyes away. Looking at Harrington is making his vision dilate, making little spots cross over everything like ash floating over a fire. He's going nuts.
Harrington’s got a black eye.