The car jolted violently—a metallic thud followed by the screech of scraping plastic. Something had definitely, unequivocally, rear-ended them.
Kyler's tablet slipped from his grasp, clattering against the leather seat before he caught it by sheer reflex. His expression didn't so much as twitch. But the temperature inside the vehicle plummeted so fast that Wilson's coffee—which was in a sealed thermos—briefly considered turning into a slushie.
Wilson's soul performed a quick out-of-body experience, floated up to the ceiling, looked down at the mess, and then reluctantly returned to its fleshy prison.
"...Alpha," Wilson said, his voice eerily calm, like a man who had accepted his fate. "I think the tornado just rear-ended us."
He twisted around in his seat, craning his neck to peer through the rear windshield. But the angle was wrong. He could only see the sky, some clouds, and a pigeon that looked like it was judging the entire situation.
