“I ain’t crazy.  Let’s take this dad gum truck for a spin.  Whut, you chicken?”  Woody meant it.  Crap.  What was I going to do now?  How on God’s green earth was I going to stop this idiot from making the worst mistake of his life?  He opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.
    “Get out of there you idiot.  If you get caught you’re going to be in deep trouble.”  My words bounced off his thick skull like B-B’s off a concrete slab.  The next thing I knew, he had pulled a handful of wires out from under the dash and was trying to hot-wire it.  I heard radio static a couple of times, a puff of smoke shot up in his face and then the truck was running.  I took off down the sidewalk and Woody, truck door still open, pulled out and started riding beside me, giving me a load of crap about being chicken.  I ran across the church parking lot and headed toward the Town Square.  He whipped around and pursued me down the street.  After a block, I gave up and got in, knowing full well Mama was going to kill me when she found out.  As we headed out of town, six or eight people got a good look at us riding in Mr. Pittman’s truck.
    Woody was driving fairly straight and kept it around 30 miles per hour.  His previous driving experience had been primarily backing up and down their driveway.  He giggled every once in a while and I sat there staring at the road.
    “Woody...this is the dumbest thing you ever did.  And it is definitely the dumbest thing I ever did.  Mama is going to kill us.”
    “I ain’t worried.  I’ve been beat so many times, whut’s one more time?”  Woody had a very serious look on his face now.  “Yore Mama won’t beat you and you know it.  All you’ll do is tell her I made you get in.”
    He was right.  I would probably blame it on him.  I had a tendency to stretch the truth, especially when I was trying to save my own skin.  Thinking about it I rationalized that it WAS his fault and I had to get in to keep him from getting caught right off the bat.
    “Woody, we got to ditch this truck and go home,” I looked him straight in the eye.  “Maybe nobody recognized us in town.  Let’s stop and leave it on the side of the road.  We can cut across this field up here and nobody will see us until we come out on the highway.”
    “If you want out, jump.”  Woody was kind of scaring me now.  He had gotten a mean look on his face. “You supposed to wreck a stolen car.  You don’t park the dad blame thang.  Coy, Jr. you don’t know nuthin about bein’ no criminal!”
    “What?  Criminals?  Us?  Woody, you are out of your mind!  Stop this truck right now!”  I was screaming to the top of my lungs.  I was ready to kill him.  Then, I hauled off and punched him in the side of the head.  The truck swerved off the road and down into a gully.
    “Dad gummit!  Why’d you hit me?”  Woody was holding his ear where I hit him and looked at me in total disbelief.  “Well…you took care of the wreckin’ part!”  Woody started laughing and we climbed out of the truck into the ditch, water up to our knees.  Of course I fell down and got completely drenched.  I had never been so mad in my entire life.  All I wanted to do was get away from him.  I started yelling at him as I climbed up the embankment to the road.  “Woody, you are an idiot.  Did you know that?  Say?  Did you know that?  You don’t have sense God gave a grasshopper!  You are an absolute IDIOT!”
    Woody, still standing knee deep in ditch water, looked at me and said, “I know that.  Don’t you think I know that?  I’ve heard it every dad gum day of my dad gum life.  Every morning, every night…all my stinkin’ life.  And I don’t need you to remind me.”
    I turned and started to walk back toward town.  I had taken about two steps when I saw the sheriff’s car topping the hill coming our way.  I looked at Woody still standing in the ditch.  I yelled, ”IT’S THE COPS!  WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
    Woody looked up at me and yelled back, “RUN!”  I turned toward the road.  Unfortunately, by this time, the car had pulled up beside me and turned on the blue lights.  I looked back down in the gully and Woody had taken off running.  He was running down the gully toward where it emptied into Green’s Creek.  His shoes had come off in the thick mud and his socks were half off his feet.  The Deputy jumped out of his car, pulled his pistol and fired two shots at Woody.  Woody fell down the mouth of the gully, his body dumped into the creek and faded under the muddy water.  I looked at the Deputy in total disbelief.  Then I recognized him.  Clark Hannon, the son of ol’ man Hannon.
    “GET ON THE GROUND!” he turned and shouted, spit flying in my face.  He holstered his pistol, but then drew it back out, and smacked me in the face.  The sting of pain was so intense it felt like ice.  When I hit the ground I could feel the hard, sharp edges of broken teeth going down the back of my throat.  With the taste of blood in my mouth, I began to lose my sight. Like a flash from a spotlight, everything went white, and I passed out.