Ovenshine

11.

The walk to Jude's car is uncomfortably silent, because Indy did not expect to be here, and thus she has no idea what to say. The discomfort seems to be only on her part, though. Jude hums an obscure song under his breath and twirls his keys around his index finger like he's going for a casual stroll.

He stops at a burnt orange, cube-shaped SUV which looks like it either rightfully belongs to a soccer mom or a cross-country hiker; Indy can't quite decide. There's a suspicious dent in the backseat door and a window decal that proudly advises, LESS HONKIN', MORE TONKIN.

Jude knocks a fist against the car's side, the metal thudding dully in response. "She used to be my dad's before I bought her off him. She's old and makes a lot of weird noises, but she runs well enough."

Indy's mouth quirks in amusement. "Does she have a name?"

"Dog."

"The car's name is Dog?"

Jude shrugs, yanking the door open, which appears to take some considerable force. "I always wanted one."

She can't believe it. The key to obtaining her first real lead is in the hands of an indie rock band's drummer who named his car Dog.

As dated as Dog's exterior may have appeared, inside the car is clean, the seats polished gray leather, cinnamon air freshener clipped to the vent above the stereo system. Indy is on edge for the first part of the drive, sitting straight up in her seat and watching everything on the road with rapt attention. Sometime later—whether it's after ten minutes or fifteen or twenty, she isn't exactly sure—she finds herself relaxing, however. She's let go of the sides of her seat and instead leans back into it, her head almost against the window. The synth beats and groovy bass riffs echoing from Jude's speakers are syrupy, dynamic, luring her off to a world of dreams.

"Not falling asleep over there, are you?" Jude says, and wags a finger. "I have a strict no sleeping policy in this car."

Indy feigns an obnoxious yawn. Then: "Jude?"

"Hm?"

"I don't know anything about you."

His eyes, a shimmering, almost unnatural gold in the glow of the afternoon, never leave the road. "I'm really not a serial killer, I swear. It was just one person."

Indy says nothing.

"That's a joke. Ha ha ha. I'm joking, see?"

Indy still says nothing, but she sweeps her jacket open, wide enough that he can see the hot pink bottle of mace she always has on her person.

"Okay. Terrible joke, my bad," Jude says. He pulls up to a stoplight, then turns, opening his hands. "What do you wanna know?"

Granted, Indy didn't think she would get this far. In truth there are so many things she wants to know that she finds it difficult to even figure out where to start, and now she's panicking, sifting through her mountain of questions and trying to find the least odd one to say.

"Neurogoblin's the name of your band?"

"Uh-huh."

"Who chose that? What's it mean?"

"It was a mutual decision between the three of us," Jude answers smoothly. Green highlights his face; he eases his foot onto the gas. "And I don't know what the fuck it means. It's not a mission statement or anything. It's more like an—I don't know—a feeling we were going for."

"The feeling of goblins in your brain?"

Jude grins, suddenly, genuinely. "Hell yeah. Goblins in your brain. Brain goblins."