The window on the positively ancient rust-red Volvo rolled down as the car came to a halt. Michael ducked his head to look inside.
“Where you headed, son?” The driver grinned, showing a mouth full of crooked teeth, gaps, and one gold upper incisor. He wore a battered brown suit, and an even more battered brown hat, reminding Michael very much of his late grandfather.
Michael heaved a sigh of relief, and then told him. Old black dudes were far less likely to be maniacs, serial killers, or run-of-the-mill thugs than young or middle-aged white guys.
“That’s right on my route.”
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