He races out, crashing the gate. He’s going fast. He’s shit at driving.
“Get on the right side of the road! Jesus, 34!”
He looks at me uncertainly.
I gesture frantically. “Stay on this side of the line! You see it? See the line?”
He jerks the vehicle into the proper lane. He drives like a newbie, pressing the gas in pulses.
“Driven isn’t the same ascan drive,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He’s swaying in his seat. He swerves. I scream and grab the wheel. That jerks him back to attention.
“You’re going to pass out and kill us! Come on! Let me drive.”
He pushes my hand off. He’s pale. Is he losing blood? Is it the drugs?
“You’re half passed out!” He doesn’t even have his seatbelt on.
He glowers at the road. It’s a two-lane nowhere highway. We pass a Pine Cone Motel billboard. Free WiFi. Spotlight beams shine up from below it. The ambient light kisses his full lips, his powerful cheekbones.
I grip the door handle and quietly unbuckle my seatbelt, hold it in place, ready to run.
“Buckle it.”
“No!”
He sucks in a breath. “…won’t get far.”
“I won’t get far dead!”
He doesn’t reply; he just tightens his grip on the wheel.
“Talk to me. Have you ever driven on a road before?”
“Cars at campsites.”
“You’re going to kill us. Do you even know traffic signals? Pull over.”
He barrels on. Too fast for me to jump out. Or should I try it?
“I’m not dying in a car, 34.”
He drives on, concentrating. I grip the handle, riding helplessly.
“You’re going to pass out.”
“I won’t.”
Keep him awake,I think. “They were trying to kill you. Why did they want to kill you?”
“People always want to kill me.”
“No. These were hitters. Organized crime guys.”
A car comes from the other way. Light on his face.
“Fuck!” Our headlights aren’t even on. They should be on in this gloomy weather. “Stay on this side of the line. God!” I squeeze my eyes shut and duck as the car passes, horn blaring. “Let me drive.”