Page 289 of Wild Card 13

Ty stood at the tailgate and checked the straps one more time.

"Do not drive over thirty," I said.

He held up three fingers.

"If you take a pothole, I will haunt you."

"Fair." He shut the tailgate, rounded the truck, and climbed into the cab.

The engine coughed to life with the kind of sound that suggestedBetsy was operating entirely on spite and family history. I braced one hand against the sculpture's side and one against the truck bed.

For exactly eighteen seconds, everything was fine.

Then sunlight hit Frozen Bento. A thin stream of water slid down the sculpture's side, traced over one beautifully carved curl, and dripped directly onto my forearm.

I stared at it.

Then a cold ribbon of water rolled off Bento's chest and straight down the front of my dress.

Betsy turned carefully onto the main road. Frozen Bento shifted one imperceptible inch.

I lunged. "Ty!"

"I'm going nineteen."

"He moved."

Another stream of icy water ran over my fingers and down into the bow of my left shoe.

I made a sound I did not recognize.

Ty's shoulders shook in the cab.

"I am soaked."

"You're doing great."

"I am holding a six-foot frozen cat in the back of your truck while wearing tights."

"Heroic."

"I will climb through that rear window."

"Impressive range of motion in those shoes."

I was furious at physics. At June. At sentimental fathers. At wedding planners with perfect hair. At ice artists who could capture feline contempt but apparently could not guarantee structural dignity in sunlight.

A splash of water hit my knee.

I looked down. My expensive black dress clung wetly to my thigh. "Oh, wonderful," I said. "Great. Perfect. Very elegant."

"Want me to pull over?"

"No." I tightened my grip on Frozen Bento's slick side. "We are not losing Bea's emotionally significant ice cat on my watch."

His mouth curved again, softer this time. "Okay."

Betsy rolled over the smallest uneven patch in the road. Frozen Bento wobbled. I threw my entire body against him.