But how would they know that?
“What’s going on?” I ask. I hurry into the car, and Moreno is already in the driver’s seat by the time I’m buckling into my seat.
He hits the gas, and we fly out of the parking lot at record speed.
Moreno’s jaw is tight, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. He keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, and we are whizzing by at record speed.
If we pass by a cop, Moreno is getting a ticket for reckless driving. His foot hasn’t let up from the gas pedal as we whip around the curves of the road and head back toward town.
“Talk to me!”
I can’t stand the silence.
Whatever he thinks I can’t handle, he hasn’t even tried to explain himself.