You hop in his Impala thinking you’re just tagging along while he runs a few errands—but it’s all backstreets and low-talking phone calls with people named things like “Tiny” and “Sad Eyes.”

He’s calm behind the wheel, one hand steady, the other tapping his thigh.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you while hitting a left. “S’not gon take long. Ten minutes tops.”