T he inside of the truck they took her home in was like the Hummer limo her class had all chipped in on for the senior prom, but no stink of air freshener and the seats were nicer. The outside had been made to look like shit, but she didn’t think it really worked that well, because if anybody in town had an American car that new, they’d wash it. And the dirt looked sprayed on. It was an American-looking truck, but not quite any particular make or model. Carlos loved that about it, said it was "gray man," what he called things he’d’ve called tactical otherwise, except for it having been styled down to not attract attention. But he wouldn’t have liked it, she guessed, if it hadn’t been no make in particular, had a brutal profile, and been armored all to shit. The red-haired girl was driving, in her same bad jeans and Wildcats tank top, but now she had one of the soft-armor jackets on over that. Her name was Tacoma.