Antonio guides him into the front seat, secures the seatbelt across his lap, and slams the door shut, coming around to the driver’s side. He taps on the window.
“I’m driving,” he says.
“The hell you are. Get in the back seat.” I’m not happy that he’ll be seated with the twins, but I don’t trust where he’ll take us.
When Antonio doesn’t follow my orders, I press the gas and lunge the car forward.
“Fine! Fine! I’ll get in the back,” he grumbles.
I slam on the brakes and wait for him to climb into the back seat and slam the door before hitting the gas again, hurrying away from the destruction behind us.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
Antonio glances at his phone, the light from the screen illuminating much of the back seat.
“Where’s the nearest hospital?” I ask, needing directions. I don’t have a phone, so GPS is out of the question.
“We’re not taking him to a hospital,” Antonio says.
“He’ll bleed to death if we don’t,” I snap.
How can he let his friend die?
“What’s the plan? Let him bleed out and then bring his dead, lifeless body back to your house?” I’m short on patience, and Antonio is silent.
After several seconds, his response is terse. “Turn right at the fork in the road.”
I follow his orders, not because I want to, but because I don’t know where the hell I’m going, and I don’t want to be responsible for a dying man.
Unlike Antonio, I’m not a murderer.