Bad Penny by John D. Brown

stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly a heck of a lot more fun. Tony was the closest thing he had to a little brother.
    Up ahead on the other side of the freeway an older car pulled to the far side of a Schwan’s refrigerated food truck.
    Frank’s heart leapt. “I think I see them,” he said.
    The Schwan’s truck approached then passed on the other side. Frank spun in his seat to see the old car behind it, but it wasn’t the Nova. It was a Camero that looked like crap. His heart fell, and he turned back around. “False alarm.”
    There were three Rock Springs exits on I-80, each about two miles apart. They were coming up on the middle one. A white Lincoln Town Car with Oklahoma license plates started to pass Sam on the right. Frank scanned the streets below, searched the oncoming traffic. The Nova wasn’t anywhere. He tracked the frontage road, looked behind him and Sam. He turned back around. They were approaching the overpass for the second exit. He glanced down at Elk Street, which ran underneath the interstate, and froze.
    The back end of a two-toned silver and gray car slipped underneath the overpass. Had he seen the brick dent in the panel above the wheel?
    Sam and Frank sped onto the overpass. Frank looked out Sam’s window to watch for the car as it came out the other side, but two semis blocked his view. He waited. Waited. Come on! Then the semis heading west passed by, and beyond them, down on Elk, the Nissan emerged from underneath the overpass. Frank looked farther up the road, and about a quarter mile in front of the Nissan, racing north past the Flying J truck stop, was the Nova.
    “That’s them!” Frank yelled. “They’re heading north! We’ve got to exit.”
    “I already passed the exit,” Sam said.
    “We’ve got to exit!”
    There was no way they could go off road across the median here—too much oncoming traffic, and even if there wasn’t, there was a fence. The big Lincoln Town Car was still in the lane on their right, the off-ramp growing small behind them.
    Up head on the right, the on-ramp was coming fast.
    “Sam!”
    “There’s a car.”
    “Down the on-ramp. It’s time for Mr. Hyde.”
    Sam didn’t balk. No panic. No questions. He tapped the brakes, put on his blinker, and jerked over into the right lane. And then he was off onto the shoulder, dust flying behind the van, the tires roaring across the whump whump whump of the rumble strips.
    They were going too fast. Furthermore, two cars and an SUV were accelerating up the on-ramp.
    “Hold on,” Sam said.
    Frank braced himself.
    Sam slammed on his anti-lock brakes. The van pitched forward. Frank strained to keep from flying into the dash, and realized he should have put his seatbelt on because Sam wasn’t having any problem staying in his seat. A ten-pound sack of potatoes slid out from some hiding place in the back, flew up the center aisle of the van, and slammed into the foot of the console.
    On their left, two cars rushed past followed by a semi Frank was sure was going to hit them. Then the minivan came to a halt and rocked back just about dead center of the on-ramp. The first two cars coming up saw them and maneuvered quick stops. The last one slowed to a controlled stop.
    Sam cranked the wheel, gave the minivan some gas, and turned down the on-ramp. He moved over to the right shoulder and pushed the button to set the hazard lights blinking.
    The man in the first car was shocked and angry and gave them the bird with both hands. He was shouting as well, but Sam had the windows rolled up. Sam waved like a friendly neighbor and drove on by. He accelerated down the on-ramp, half on the asphalt, half on the shoulder, the minivan tipping sideways. The second driver was in shock. The third rolled down her window to take a picture of Sam and Frank in the minivan with a cell phone. Maybe to post on Facebook, maybe to send to the cops, maybe both. By that time Sam was moving at a good clip. He waved for the camera and