Skink--No Surrender by Carl Hiaasen

feed the disk into the slot on the car stereo. A song came on that I recognized. It was called “Run Through the Jungle,” kind of a Deep South rocker. My father had known all the words.
    “So, this is, like, your personal mix?” I asked the governor.
    “Road music, son.”
    We were heading due west, crossing the state, because the last place Malley had used her cell phone—the city of Clearwater—was on the Gulf coast. Maybe the fake Talbo Chock had friends on an island in that area.
    I asked Skink how he’d lost his left eye.
    “Long time ago, some dirtbag kicked me in the face.”
    “No way. Why?”
    “They beat up homeless people for fun, he and his buddy.”
    Honestly, I didn’t know what to say.
    “But that was the last time they did it,” the governor added.
    “How come? They go to jail?”
    “Ancient history.”
    The next song on Skink’s mix was called “Heartbreaker,” by Led Zeppelin, another band my dad liked. I had my laptop open, doing a little research.
    “Is this right? You were born in—”
    “I’m seventy-one.”
    “No, seventy-two,” I said. “You had a birthday two weeks ago.”
    “Hmm. Guess I missed the party.”
    I asked if he’d really been bitten on the nose by a coral snake, like Jim Tile had told that reporter.
    “It was a toe, not the nose. My friend was being a comedian.”
    “Then why aren’t you dead from the poison?”
    “For three long days I wished I was. Jim kept me up and walkin’ so my heart wouldn’t stop.”
    I pointed to the rattlesnake rattle on his neck cord. “What’s the story there?”
    “He got hit by a tomato truck on Highway 41. I honor his memory.”
    The governor was a steady driver, a pleasant surprise.I’d assumed it would be hard to steer a car in a straight line if you only had one eye. A few hours out of town, in the middle of nowhere, he slowed down, swung open his door and snatched a dead crow off the road. Next was an opossum (also deceased), which he grabbed by its hairless pink tail and lobbed into the backseat next to his duffel and the bird.
    “I’m starving,” he said. “You?”
    I shook my head no, politely.
    “What story’d you cook up to tell your mom?”
    “Nothing yet,” I said. “Just texted her to say good night. She’s visiting my brothers at college.”
    “What about Troy?”
    “His name’s Trent.”
    “She’s gonna strangle him,” Skink said.
    “No, I’ll tell her it wasn’t his fault. It was all me.”
    “Okay, your turn.”
    “What?” I said. The Malibu was slowing down again.
    “See that armadillo up there in the headlights?”
    “Yeah, what’s left of him.”
    “Waste not, want not.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Perfect angle for a right-hander,” said the governor. “Just lean out the door and grab the flippin’ thing. And don’t unhook your seat belt!”
    “Fine.”
    As we rolled by, I reached for the unfortunate creature—and whiffed.
    The car couldn’t have been going ten miles per hour, max. Skink chuckled, put it in reverse and collected the rest of his dinner. Twenty minutes later he turned off onto a dirt cattle road. I helped him build a small fire, but I wouldn’t eat any of his roadkill stew. Truthfully, though, it smelled all right. He said freshness was key, and also the condition of the corpses.
    “Obviously, flattened is no good,” he said.
    “Unless you’re in the mood for pancakes.”
    “Show some respect, son.”
    “Are we camping out here?”
    “No, tonight we drive. If you’re tired, sleep in the vehicle.”
    That was all right with me. Every mile we traveled was one mile closer to Malley.
    She had run away five other times. Once it happened after she got mad at Uncle Dan for confiscating her laptop, but the other four times she’d bolted simply out of boredom. And when I say ran away, my cousin literally ran . Her specialty is cross-country, and good luck trying to keep up with that girl.
    Two nights was the longest she’d ever stayed away, and no