Nine Lives Last Forever by Rebecca M. Hale

going?” Monty tried to yell over the racket.
    “Cliff House,” Harold replied bluntly. The truck hit a deep pothole that caused the front bumper to scrape against the pavement before the cab jolted up wildly on the recoil.
    “Why?” Monty hollered, straining his voice to be heard over the engine as he reached between his knees to steady the bouncing glove compartment.
    “For the view,” Harold spit out through pursed lips.
    A taxi screeched by in the open left-hand lane as both vehicles entered the Broadway tunnel. The brick and concrete walls swallowed the truck, amplifying the already deafening squall of the motor.
    The taxi quickly disappeared into the distance, leaving the truck to trundle alone through the cave of the empty tunnel. The round opening on the opposite end appeared first as a blinding halo of artificial light before slowly softening into the contours of a streetlamp-lit street. Monty tried to tuck his cold-numbed hands into the bottom hem of his sweater as the truck emerged from the tunnel’s exit and a fresh blast of chilly air shot through his open window.
    Once free of the tunnel, the road sloped upward toward the wide boulevard of Van Ness. Harold scaled back the engine to an uneven idle as they waited at the light. He turned his stiff neck to look at the passenger seat.
    Monty had wrapped every available limb over and around one another in his attempt to fight off the chill. He looked like a pale, sweater-clad pretzel.
    Harold gummed his dentures; then he reached his right arm behind the back of the truck’s bench seat, grabbed a dingy brown blanket, and tossed it into Monty’s lap.
    Monty sniffed at the blanket disdainfully. “Smells funny,” he complained as he stretched the thin cloth over his body.
    Harold rolled his eyes and swung the truck south onto Van Ness. One of the city’s main thoroughfares, the street was a mixture of commercial warehouses and residential apartment blocks. A line of tightly packed cars filled in both curbs; every possible parking space had been consumed for the night.
    Several blocks down, the gilded detailing on City Hall’s enormous dome picked up the first glints of the arriving sun. Harold squinted at the building and muttered to himself.
    “Sorry?” Monty piped up from the passenger side. “I didn’t catch that.”
    Harold gripped the steering wheel and did not respond as the rusted-out truck lumbered further down Van Ness, turning right a few minutes later. Harold navigated a nest of one-way streets with the reckless confidence of a seasoned cab driver; then he proceeded up Fell Street toward Golden Gate Park.
    A procession of low-rise apartments crowded the landscape, each unit designed as a rectangular cube, closed in on at least two of its sides to accommodate the tightest possible packing within the uninterrupted flow of buildings. Row after row of bulging bay windows lined the street, designed to snag every available ray of sunlight for the units’ otherwise dark boxes.
    Neighborhood sifted into neighborhood, becoming increasingly residential as more and more full-sized houses squeezed into the dime-sized lots. Occasional clumps of grass popped up into the gaps between residences. This, combined with a denser population of trees, signaled the truck’s approach to the entrance of Golden Gate Park.
    The roadway angled, feeding the truck into a narrow two-lane street, which was banked on either side by a dense thicket of forest. All evidence of the surrounding city immediately slipped away.
    “So, uh, hmmm.” Monty cautiously cleared his throat. “When Dilla recruited me into your little group, she was a bit light on the specifics.”
    “I would have hoped so,” Harold replied tersely, without elaboration.
    “Did Oscar really know where Sutro’s stash is hidden?” Monty asked, his eyes glittering with speculation.
    “Don’t push your luck, Carmichael,” Harold replied curtly.
    The truck continued to roll across the smooth black tarmac