Riding Shotgun Quotes

Sorrow is how we learn to love. Your heart isn't breaking. It hurts because it's getting larger. The larger it gets, the more love it holds.

Loving's pretty easy. It's letting someone love you that's hard.

Women need to feel loved and men need to feel needed.

It’s always helpful to remember that when perfectionism is driving, shame is riding shotgun.

I was her daughter, but more. I was Karen, Cheryl, Leif. Karen Cheryl Leif. KarenCherylLeif. Our names blurred into one in my mother’s mouth all my life. She whispered it and hollered it, hissed it and crooned it. We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning. We took turns riding shotgun with her in the car. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask us, holding her hands six inches apart. “No,” we’d say, with sly smiles. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask again, and on and on and on, each time moving her hands farther apart. But she would never get there, no matter how wide she stretched her arms. The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach. It could not be quantified or contained. It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching’s universe and then ten thousand more. Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned. Every day she blew through her entire reserve.

She is an uber-doer, exactly the kind of person you want riding shotgun when you're chasing a big goal and also trying to have a life.

Silence rides shotgun wherever hate goes.

She had a teddy bear in her arms and murder in her eyes.

She has a high opinion of herself,” Andrea said. “Oh yes. When she gets into a car, her ego has to ride shotgun.

We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning. We took turns riding shotgun with her in the car. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask us, holding her hands farther apart. “No,” we’d say, with sly smiles. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask again, and on and on and on, each time moving her hands farther apart. But she would never get there, no matter how wide she stretched her arms. The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach. It could not be quantified or contained. It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching’s universe and then ten thousand more. Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned. Every day she blew through her entire reserve….She was optimistic and serene, except a few times when she lost her temper and spanked us with a wooden spoon. Or the one time when she screamed FUCK and broke down crying because we wouldn’t clean our room. She was kindhearted and forgiving, generous and naïve. She dated men with names like Killer and Doobie and Motercycle Dan…

My feminism takes a backseat while my kink rides shotgun.

He could have laughed at how fucked up life was. That soon as you found something to live for, you found something to die for too. But he guessed in the end it was a good trade.

wasn’t no bit of me willing to ride shotgun to my own funeral.

America usually felt like iPhones and pizza and swimming pools to Andrew. L.A. was America. New sneakers. Sunshine. Pot and blue balls. Phoenix was America. Sprinklers and blow jobs and riding shotgun. Vegas was America, all of it. But if there were monsters and magic anywhere in this country, they would be here in New Orleans. New Orleans was an ancient doppelgänger city that grew in some other America that never really existed.

Now, at twenty-nine, I was miserable, broke, semi-homeless, very single, and pulling up to a gorgeous lake house whose very existence nauseated me. Grandly romanticizing my life had stopped serving me, but my fatal flaw was still riding shotgun in my dinged-up Kia Soul, narrating things as they happened:

I would let you ride shotgun, but first I’ll need to reload.

Living in L.A. sometimes felt like you were riding shotgun with the devil to the apocalypse.

'Shotgun!' he bellowed, startling them as he scrambled to the front, passenger-side door. Camael looked at him, an expression of confusion on his goateed face. 'What did you Say?' 'I said shotgun,' Gabriel [the dog] explained. 'It's what you're supposed to say when you want to ride in the front seat.' Aaron could not help but laugh. No matter how many conversations he had had with the animal, Gabriel's increased intelligence still managed to surprise him.

My brother talks about car accidents the same way I talk about family. I don’t know when he learned to forgive. I don’t remember teaching him that. I don’t remember learning it myself. His life’s ambition is to be the man my father never was: to step up to the plate, to grow into a firefighter’s uniform or ride shotgun in an ambulance. I am still stuck on the bathroom floor with my resentment.

THERE WAS ALWAYS a boy in your life that common sense and the prayers of parents told you to stay away from: fast talker, fast car, and fast hands. He was the boy your father kept a loaded shotgun by the door for and met on the front porch if he ever thought about venturing onto his property…let alone the threshold. He was the tall, dark, mysteriously handsome, and uncharacter-istically quiet one that made you wonder what was going on in his head, and that little voice in your head said it wasn’t always so honorable. He was the boy you broke all of the rules over because bad-boys equaled excitement and the rebel in you liked the ride.

But as Ana pulled away on a west-bound highway with a werewolf riding shotgun and her thirst for blood calling yet again, she had this thought: Maybe a Misfit could never be normal, no matter how badly it wanted to.

There’s a huge difference between I screwed up (guilt) and I am a screwup (shame). The former is acceptance of our imperfect humanity. The latter is basically an indictment of our very existence. It’s always helpful to remember that when perfectionism is driving, shame is riding shotgun. Perfectionism is not healthy striving. It is not asking, How can I be my best self? Instead, it’s asking, What will people think? When looking at our own stories, we can benefit from wondering: Did something happen in this story that left me feeling like my cover was blown, revealing that I’m really not what I want people to think I am? Did my pretend/please/perfect/perform/prove house of cards come tumbling down? For those of us who struggle with perfectionism, it’s not difficult to find ourselves in a situation similar to Andrew’s, one where we look back and think, I got sucked into proving I could, rather than stepping back and asking if I should—or if I really even wanted to.

Just because they write something In this font And break apart their lines To rhyme To dramatize To imitate Doesn’t make what they say true. And quotations marks Don’t make sentences “life conclusions.” A post, a page, A billboard, or a wallpaper— Let it swirl for a few and if you want to spit it out, V omit. If you want to keep it, Let it ride shotgun. But argue with it first. Debate. Don’t simply accept it Because you may By accident Accept a monster Disguised As a poem.

After his rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Welton just stared straight ahead at the alter as if he were waiting for Jesus to climb down off the cross and escape with him. They would load up in Dantly’s Skylark and the three of them would go score some Ex in Cedar Rapids. Jesus would like totally ride shotgun and scout for cops.

NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER Silence rides shotgun wherever hate goes.

It’s the best part of not being real.

I asked you to ride shotgun with me. I didn’t say hold the shotgun to my heart and pull the trigger.

So supervillain rides shotgun. Put that on the list of things I never thought I’d say.” “A lot of that going on right now.

Either you teach her how to take a punch or the world does.

She thought it was the police who were really missing. They were the ones who weren’t where they were supposed to be, which was coming to get her.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real. It only mattered that it was true.

The underpass was a tent city. The people living there dirty faced and unfed. Refugees of a war only they knew about.

You got to feel weak to get strong. Don’t run away from it.

It was an intimate moment, this moment between robber and victim. A gun to the head made you naked.

She buried her head in a towel. She scrubbed, not just her hair, but her face too, the towel scratching, pressing it into the sockets of her eyes until she saw color galaxies be born and die in the dark behind her eyelids.

He had men for hands. It only took a few days all told before the posters came to a man with a throat-cut tattoo and fuck-you-money ambitions. Addresses were compiled. Plans made. Weapons secured. Blood pacts sealed. His will be done.

Just because they write something In this font And break apart their lines To rhyme To dramatize To imitate Doesn’t make what they say true. And quotations marks Don’t make sentences “life conclusions.” A post, a page, A billboard, or a wallpaper— Let it swirl for a few and if you want to spit it out, Vomit. If you want to keep it, Let it ride shotgun. But argue with it first. Debate. Don’t simply accept it Because you may By accident Accept a monster Disguised As a poem.

Poetry: Peacekeeper of the World I declare poetry, 'Peacekeeper of the World!' As our sentinel. she glides softly like a guided missile, carries within words an alliteratively wide-ranging whistle, she ride shotgun preserving the liberties of our fucked-up human race, eliminating evil empires with ametaphor, a simile or elegant coup de grace.

Nintendo not letting itself make a browser Mario game has not stopped a flash flood of in-browser Mario games. Super Mario Flash, New Super Mario Bros. Flash, Infinite Mario, and the amazing Super Mario Crossover, which lets you play the original SMB games using characters from Castlevania, Excitebike, Ninja Gaidan, and more. (If you like that, try Abobo's Big Adventure.) There are free (and unlicensed) Mario games where he rides a motorbike, takes a shotgun to the Mushroom Kingdom, decides to fight with his fists, is replaced by Sonic, replaces Pac-Man in a maze game, and plays dress-up. They receive no admonition from Nintendo's once-ferocious legal department. Why not? Iwata's explanation is commonsensical: "[I]t would not be appropriate if we treated people who did someone based on affection for Nintendo as criminals." This is also why no one has been told by lawyers to stop selling Wario-as-a-pimp T-shirts.

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike A girl could feel special on any such like Said James to Red Molly, my hat's off to you It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme And he pulled her on behind And down to Boxhill they did ride Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man I've fought with the law since I was seventeen I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22 And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you And if fate should break my stride Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left He was running out of road, he was running out of breath But he smiled to see her cry And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52 He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys He said I've got no further use for these I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome Swooping down from heaven to carry me home And he gave her one last kiss and died And he gave her his Vincent to ride

office. “Freaking glorious.” I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and I headed out. Tank was standing guard on the sidewalk, in front of my car. “I have a couple FTAs,” I said to Tank. “One’s in the Burg and one’s in Hamilton Township. I have to stop at my apartment first to get some clean clothes and stuff.” “It might be easier if we took one car for the busts,” Tank said. I agreed. “Do you want to drive or ride shotgun?” Tank’s eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. Shocked that I would even consider driving. Tank only rode shotgun to Ranger. “It’s the twenty-first century,” I told Tank. “Women drive.” “Only in my bed,” Tank said. “Never in my car.” I didn’t have a reply to that, but I thought it sounded like an okay philosophy. So I beeped the Escape locked, got into Tank’s SUV, and we chugged off for my place.

Wherever perfectionism is driving, shame is riding shotgun.

Man, I’ve been there.” Murphy laughed. “You were pretty dazed when I dragged your superhero ass off the floor down there.” “I’m past that part of it,” I said. “Thanks. If you hadn’t come down to get me, I’d be dead right now.” “Somebody has to ride shotgun in the Murph-mobile.” “Somebody stole the Murph-mobile,” I reminded him.

This is the brick & mortar of the America that murdered Tamir & may stalk the laughter in my backseat. I am a father driving his Black sons to school & the death of a Black boy rides shotgun & this could be a funeral procession. The death a silent thing in the air, unmentioned— because mentioning death invites taboo: if you touch my sons the blood washed away from the concrete must, at some point, belong to you, & not just to you, to the artifice of justice that is draped like a blue g-d around your shoulders, the badge that justifies the echo of the fired pistol; taboo:

wherever perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shotgun

I’ve learned that wherever perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shotgun.

History itself is stained with the blood of the innocent and written by the ruthless. Good does not always triumph over evil. Prayers do not win battles. Sometimes, we need the devil on our side. The problem is, once you have him riding shotgun, he's hard to get rid of.

An actual fucking gun riding shotgun. Who had he become? It was insane how fast everything could change, especially for the worse.

History itself is stained with the blood of the innocent and written by the ruthless. Good does not always triumph over evil. Prayers do not win battles. Sometimes, we need the devil on our side. The problem is, once you have him riding shotgun, he’s hard to get rid of.

When perfectionism is driving… shame is always riding shotgun.” 6

If blame is driving, shame is riding shotgun. In organizations, schools, and families, blaming and finger-pointing are often symptoms of shame. Shame researchers June Tangney and Ronda Dearing explain that in shame-bound relationships, people “measure carefully, weigh, and assign blame.

You got to feel weak to get strong.

But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me. I’m Sam’s wife—I should be the one sitting next to him.

but my fatal flaw was still riding shotgun in my dinged-up Kia Soul, narrating things as they happened:

Liam could ride shotgun with me and experience how it felt not to know which way was up.

But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me.

The story - that Sarah was driving, with Misty riding shotgun and Theo in the back seat - will not be questioned. Not this night, not ever. It will become the deepest kind of family secret, one so dangerous that it will never be spoken

Unnecessary division is often a heart issue. It is easy for a spirit of self-justification to ride shotgun with our secondary distinctives. Much doctrinal separatism stems from finding our identity in our theological distinctives when we should be finding it in the gospel. As John Newton wisely warned, “Self-righteousness can feed upon doctrines, as well as works!”25 John Calvin went so far as to claim that “pride or haughtiness is the cause and commencement of all contentions.”26 We know there is a spirit of self-justification about our theology when we feel superior to Christians from other tribes and groups, or when a particular believer, church, or group unduly annoys us. It is one thing to disagree with another Christian. That is inevitable to anyone who thinks. It is another thing when our disagreement takes an attitude of contempt, condescension, or undue suspicion toward those with whom we disagree.

Unnecessary division is often a heart issue. It is easy for a spirit of self-justification to ride shotgun with our secondary distinctives. Much doctrinal separatism stems from finding our identity in our theological distinctives when we should be finding it in the gospel. As John Newton wisely warned, “Self-righteousness can feed upon doctrines, as well as works!” John Calvin went so far as to claim that “pride or haughtiness is the cause and commencement of all contentions.” We know there is a spirit of self-justification about our theology when we feel superior to Christians from other tribes and groups, or when a particular believer, church, or group unduly annoys us. It is one thing to disagree with another Christian. That is inevitable to anyone who thinks. It is another thing when our disagreement takes an attitude of contempt, condescension, or undue suspicion toward those with whom we disagree.

The hardest thing about a fight is learning to get hit.’ ‘You mean how not to get hit?’ ‘You’re going to get hit,’ he said. ‘Life ain’t a video game or a school test. There’s no doing it perfect. . . ' When the bullies came after you, when they hurt you, it wasn’t the hurt that you were scared of. It was what you wanted to do, what you could do, that’s what scared you.

Free air smelled great even when it was filthy.

Billy the Kid died in the dark, asking who is it? to the man who murdered him. That's how gunslingers died. Real life didn't give you a showdown. Real life put a bullet in the back of your head.

...nobody belonged to anybody but themselves. Not in the end.

She felt something strange, a thrumming in her muscles, a thrumming in her mind. It took her a second to find the word for what she felt. It was a word she hadn't gotten to use for herself in a long time. The word was power.

After all of these years of riding shotgun next to him in the streets, I was having a hard time dealing with retirement. As for Thug, he’s so content and doesn’t have a care in the world about the shit. These days, he’s chilling, smoking, and drinking Remy. Enjoying the shit out of being retired. Sometimes

She yanked open the door, and her smile faded. The same Indian who had wanted to trade two horses for her was standing on the apple crate that served as a front step, his black hair dripping with water, his calico shirt so wet that his copper skin showed through in places. “No house!” he said. Lily was paralyzed for a moment. Here it was, she thought, the moment she’d been warned about. She was going to be scalped, or ravaged, or carried off to an Indian village. Maybe all three. She cast a desperate glance toward the shutgun, at the same time smiling broadly at the Indian. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but of course you can see that there is a house.” “Woman go away!” the Indian insisted. Lily’s heart was flailing in her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney, but she squared her shoulders and put out her chin. “I’m not going anywhere, you rude man,” she replied. “This is my land, and I have the papers to prove it!” The Indian spouted a flock of curses; Lily knew the words for what they were only because of their tone. She started to close the door. “If you’re going to be nasty,” she said, “you’ll just have to leave.” Undaunted, the red man pushed past Lily and strode right over to the stove. He got a cup from the shelf, filled it with coffee, and took a sip. He grimaced. “You got firewater?” he demanded. “Better with firewater.” Lily had never been so frightened or so angry in her life. With one hand to her bosom she edged toward the shotgun. “No firewater,” she said apologetically, “but there is a little sugar. There”—she pointed—“in the blue bowl.” When her unwanted guest turned around to look for the sugar, Lily lunged for the shotgun and cocked it. There was no shell in the chamber; she could only hope the Indian wouldn’t guess. “All right, you,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing the shotgun. “Get out of here right now. Just ride away and there won’t be any trouble.” The Indian stared at her for a moment, then had the audacity to burst out laughing. “The major’s right about you,” he said in perfectly clear English. “You are a hellcat.” Now it was Lily who stared, slowly lowering the shotgun. “So that’s why Caleb wasn’t alarmed that day when you and your friends rode up and made all that fuss about the land. He knows you.” “The name’s Charlie Fast Horse,” the man said, offering his hand. Lily’s blood was rushing to her head like lava flowing to the top of an erupting volcano. “Why, that polecat—that rounder—that son-of-a—” Charlie Fast Horse set his coffee aside and held out both hands in a plea for peace. “Calm down, now, Miss Lily,” he pleaded. “It was just a harmless little joke, after all.” “When I see that scoundrel again I’m going to peel off his hide!” Charlie was edging toward the door. “Lord knows I’d like to warm myself by your fire, Miss Lily, but I’ve got to be going. No, no—don’t plead with me to stay.” “Get out of here!” Lily screamed, and Charlie Fast Horse ran for his life. Obviously he didn’t know the shotgun wasn’t loaded. The

Fact was, it was a gorgeous, sunny day outside. The wind was whipping through my hair, cooling off my heated skin. I had Guns blaring on the radio... and a beautiful girl riding shotgun, tapping her toes to the beat.

Fact was, it was a gorgeous, sunny day outside. The wind was whipping through my hair, cooling off my heated skin. I had Guns blaring on the radio... and a beautiful girl riding shotgun, tapping her toes to the beat. Life was good.

Do you think the stars stare back at us? I asked... "Oh, I think they watch us with rapt attention," Blue said. "Especially during the day, when we ignore them, when our eyes can't see past the blue. It's quite the partnership, you know. We put on a show for each other. We're both spectacles." As he spoke, I stretched out on my back, hands clasped behind my head, admiring his profile. The slope of his nose. The curve of his lips. The set of his jaw. Then I turned my gaze to the endless stars above us, and the constellations I knew by name. They were all there, shining the same as they do over two hundred years in the future. They traveled with me, my companions on this journey. Orion was driving, Cassiopeia was riding shotgun, and I was in the backseat singing 'Stardust' and 'Orion is Arising' and 'Catch a Falling Star.

While she prayed, she listened--for Hunter, for some telltale sound that he was indeed out there, as she sensed he was. She knew, as surely as if Hunter had told her, that he was watching over her. She knew as long as the white men did her and Amy no harm, he was content to ride shotgun, watching over them from a distance. On the last night out, Loretta’s faith in Hunter was rewarded. As everyone settled down to sleep, a coyote yipped nearby, his voice lifting in a mournful call that shivered along her spine and made the hair on her nape prickle. She rolled onto her side, back to the fire so she could scan the darkness. A shadow moved beyond the firelight. The coyote yipped again. Warmth spread through her. As unobtrusively as she could, she linked her forefingers in the sign of friendship. If Hunter was out there, he would see and know the song her heart sang.

...eyes don't only reflect what they're seeing. They also reflect what they've already seen.

Nothing was more valuable than “windshield time” with my manager riding shotgun in my car. He would alternate between preaching sales theory to quizzing me about product knowledge or what was happening at each of my key customers. When we would pull up to an account, he always insisted I drive around the building. He would say, “You can learn a lot more about a business by watching what’s going in and out of the back door than the front door.” So, of course, twenty-two years later, I’m still sneaking around the back before sales calls and mentoring salespeople to do the same.

I steered us across a bridge that had been made from an old freight car, a common practice in our part of the world, and pulled up to a number of strands of barbed wire with a steel sign affixed, which read KEEP OUT, PRIVATE PROPERTY, followed by TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. I slowed the truck to a stop and looked at the shiners riding shotgun. “Feel like doing something unlawful?” She cracked the passenger door open and climbed out. “Always, and all ways.

We’d all started for the front hall when my father’s throat-clearing stopped us. “Where do you think you’re going?”   Jack and I exchanged wary looks. Parents pretending to be stupid was usually a sign that they were about to try to be – eugh – funny.   “Out, Mr Yamato,” Rachel said patiently, falling for it. “We’re going to walk to this nexus place. Aren’t you coming?”   Dad got out of the armchair and stretched fluidly. “Yes, but I’m not walking it. I assume you’re up for a ride in the Dad Taxi?”   I might be a barely functioning, emotionally shattered control freak, but I wasn’t an idiot. The next word out of my mouth was “Shotgun!”   The others groaned.

I bet I wouldn't have been kidnapped if my pet raptor was riding shotgun"

I bet I wouldn’t have been kidnapped if my pet raptor was riding shotgun. The

Henry, riding shotgun, made a touching effort to stay awake and then fell into slumber. Henry was a sweet kid and Doob knew that when he woke up he would apologize. But Henry wasn’t a parent, and he didn’t understand that when you were, almost nothing was more satisfying than seeing your kid sleep.

...you should’ve seen me ready to shiv security for making me take my ring off earlier.” I frowned as I accidently lost control of my chopsticks, my California roll dropping into the little plastic cup of soy sauce. “See?Sounds like classic Bridezilla behavior to me.” She almost choked on her wasabi-laced sushi piece. “Bridezilla? I am the least likely person to turn Bridezilla you will ever meet. In fact, I am like the Mothra of the Bridezilla world.” “Mothra.” I tsked. “Pedestrian. Destoroyah—no, Bridestoroyah—could totally take on Bridezilla.” “You have the chopstick skill level of a preschooler, and you dare to go around citing Japanese monster movie characters to me?” Laney seethed. “I have my reasons for choosing Mothra.” “Yeah?” I stabbed my chopsticks straight through the middle of my errant sushi piece. “Let’s hear them.” “Don’t, it’s bad luck!” she exclaimed. “What, to talk to a bride about her wedding dress before the big day?” And I thought Sloane was taking the wedding superstitions too far. “No, to stab your chopstick through the middle of your food.” She reached across the table and readjusted my sticks for me with one hand. I noticed she kept her other hand on the garment bag riding shotgun in the chair next to her. Its midnight blue sheen and fancy silver embroidery looked out of place in the middle of the airport food court.

My silk slick black muscular back- talking uncle driving me and a school of fish corpses to church. The sick-eyed gap-mouthed bass, the kingfish without kingdom, the silver-thin silver fish--each dead and separate in a cool bucket. Gilded and shapely as a necktied Sunday morning, the fish. Sit uptight, he said, and I sat right up, riding shotgun looking hard at the road. He muttered, Crackers, as if it was something swinging from a thin clear wire, the clump of tiny maggots in a trout's brain, the flies lazing like the devil's jewelry at our backs. Last night when the white boy's arm lassoed his daughter's neck, my uncle said nothing until they left. I let him feed me the anger I knew was a birthright, a plate of bones thin enough to puncture a lung. But the words did things in my mouth I'd heard they killed people for. They went to a movie and sat quietly and touched or did not touch the darkness. My uncle watched the news with the sound turned down until she came in, my silk slick black back- talking cousin, his daughter. He went to work beating a prayer out her skin.

Looking down the barrel of a gun, you don’t see the tip of the bullet. You just see darkness, like a preview of eternity.

Group homes and orphanages were no safer than the streets. They were cages full of predators and Polly was prey.

As a shame researcher, I’ve learned that wherever perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shotgun.

wherever perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shotgun.

He wasn’t happy unless he was going so fast that one misstep would send him riding shotgun in heaven.

Mack was a seventy-year-old black man who remembered the Klan, remembered huddling behind his daddy and a shotgun, fears of nighttime raids and tales of Klansmen riding up from towns like Goodrich and Shepherd. But this was 2016, and Rutherford McMillan wasn’t having that shit.