The Furnace lived up to its name. During his expedition with Crispin, sweat had scored paths down Grindhouse's sides and temples, little rivulets that quickly evaporated into stinging salt. Parched and weighed down with the spoils of their hunt, he was tired. The sulfurous stink was making him lightheaded. Worse, the dumb luck of drawing his father's contract was making him think.
All day there had been few words between them. Small talk reached a natural end once Grindhouse followed C...