“Got you a coffee,” Selina tells you, sliding back into the driver’s seat of your stolen getaway car, flicking her sunglasses down over her face. She’s trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, you both are. With dark sunglasses, baseball caps, nondescript clothing, and the stolen Honda Civic that’s had its license plate replaced two times now. The coffee in question isn’t exactly anything special, just some shitty gas station brew to hold you over. “And you’re in charge of the map.”

The map hits you in the chest as Selina starts the car back up, glancing around the desolate gas station with a look of suspicion you’ve seen on her face a few times now. She’s awkward and on edge, though it’s not like she can be blamed for that, given the circumstances; and the fact that she feels like it’s her responsibility to look out for you.

Selina’s the reason you’re in this mess, to begin with. All because of her simple, foolproof heist that proved to be absolutely neither of those things. She’d dragged you into things, and now that things had gone horribly wrong. You have both the authorities and the mob on your tail. So it’s backroads and motels until she figures out a plan to actually fix this.

The car pulls out back onto the road — some old country road, not the interstate, Selina said something about trying to avoid traffic — flying past a ‘Welcome to Pennsylvania’ Sign. From the corner of your eye, you can see how tightly she’s clutching the steering wheel. Long nails digging into the old leather of the car. It’s hard to tell if she’s anxious, annoyed, or guilty. Selina’s always been a remarkably hard person to read, especially in situations like this.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the car. She’s not the type to fill the quiet with needless chit-chat, or small talk. Especially when you’re both trying to focus on not getting caught.