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A Worse Idea 68

“I remember you,” the prison security guard said, sticking his neck through Prometheus’s driver-side window and looking at the interior of the car.

“Mhm,” Prometheus said, hands on the steering wheel. “On TV?”

“Yeah, on the TV.” The guard pulled his head back, but still kept his hands on either side of the driver-side window. “You were gettin’ the shit kicked out of you by some hero-type. Galactic Man, I think.”

“Probably Galactic Man,” Prometheus said.

“He was kickin’ the shit out of you.” The guard raised his fists. He jabbed the air a couple times, re-enacting faded memories of the scene. “I lived for superhero coverage back in the day. Grew up on that shit.”

You get hit with fists like Galactic Man’s, see how fun you think it is, Prometheus thought.

He forced a smile. “Glad you liked it. Can I get in?” Prometheus pointed at the gate.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the guard said. “You got a friend in here?”

Prometheus didn’t respond. He waited for the guard to open the gate, then he drove into the prison parking lot.

“Call Sharise,” he told his car.

The car dialed Sharise’s number.

In three rings, she picked up. “Yeah?”

“I need a favor.”

“What’s new?”

“See if you can’t find out where Anne is.”

Sharise sighed. “What’s she up to?”

“Had a rough night,” Prometheus said. “I called her this morning, but she didn’t pick up. Just check it out for me, will you?”

“Sure,” Sharise said. “Anything else?”

Prometheus pulled into a parking spot. “No, that’s all.”

The phone disconnected. Prometheus sat in the car for a second, looking at the prison complex. Not the highest security he’d seen, but it wasn’t summer camp, either.

He got out of the car.

He had to see Randy; he had to see Katie.

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