As Rock stood with his stepmother on the street in front of hers and his father's house, he noticed that a mid-1970s Chevrolet Vega had turned toward them. Rock was to the driver's left and stood next to a steeply banked, head-high concrete wall. The car was far left of center. Rock felt as if it were bearing down on him, that perhaps its driver intended to pin him against the wall. There was nothing he could do but watch, and hope. The car missed him by inches.
It was heavily dented, primer-gray, and going ten miles an hour at most, and continued for about half a block past Rock and his stepmother before it came to stop. They watched the driver step out. He had a pistol with him.
"Lillian, I think you should go in the house and tell dad to get one of his guns," Rock said.
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