It’s dark now. I sit in the bed of the truck, still and watchful. Squonk curls in my lap like a sad, wet cat, his weight warm against me. I stroke the back of his misshapen head absently, eyes locked on the trap. The cluster of soda bottles glimmers faintly in the inky field, barely visible.
Up front, the girl sits beside the great, fat ape. Yaya flips t…
