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Digging out the wet ball of twenties from his back pocket is the hardest thing I’ve done in months. My fingers don’t want to work, and his jeans are stuck to his legs like a second skin. Finally, I wrench it free and shove the wad of cash inside my own pocket.

The keys are easier—they slip out of his front pocket when I roll his body back over.

Now.

All I have to do is make it back to Ira’s car.

But my knees won’t budge from the puddle, water seeping through the denim and all the way down to the bone beneath.

Come on.

We’re running out of time.

It doesn’t matter what I tell myself. Whether it’s important, self-soothing, or completely necessary logic that can’t be refuted. Everything from my shoulders down is refusing to behave the way it has for twenty-one years. Two thoughts keep circling inside my head. Competing.

Ira.

Sleep.

The second one wins, and my eyes close on their own, my arms trembling with the effort to keep me upright.

I’ve almost convinced myself that this is alright—that a fifteen minute nap in the pouring rain, at a rest stop on the side of the highway, is alright, when arms loop around my waist from behind.

“Fuck me.” Ira’s voice slides through one ear to the other, nearly drowned out by the thunder. “Why are you so heavy?”

My back hits the side of the truck, and he peels the keys out of my hand. I barely hear it beep.

I can’t keep track of what he’s saying anymore, either.

“…fifteen minutes…”

“…left foot…”

“…work with me.”

I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t feel the rain pounding down anymore. Then he tucks something around my shoulders, warm and dry. The seatbelt’s too tight over my chest.

Ira cups both sides of my jaw, leaning closer until I feel his nose brush my cheek and his lips on my ear. “I’ll figure it out for us, Beckett.”

I spend the next couple hours swinging between unfortunately awake—my head and face pulsing worse than when Dave initially hit me—and unfortunately asleep. My temple keeps sliding down the passenger’s side window, knocking into the lock. Over and over.

The second something sharp digs into the gash, my eyes snap open and pain blares down the entire left side of my body.

Pop music is playing softly on the radio, Ira’s hands drumming against the wheel. I hear something crunch, and I glance over. There’s a bag of Cheetos between his thighs. He dips his hand into the open top, eyes never leaving the road, and shoves a handful into his mouth.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I don’t know when he got jeans. The long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is a green John Deere, not something either of us own. The ballcap isn’t one of mine, either.

“The orange juice is probably still cold,” he says between bites, sucking cheese powder off his thumb. “Oh—we’re like, fifty miles from a motel. I think. Maybe sixty. Whatev. The last sign said it’s coming up soon.”

What motel?

Where?

When did he get the clothes? The food?

The pop music switches to a DJ.