Another sluggish nod.
“That’s a cool name. Sounds like a frontman in a band or something.” This has to be the most bizarre moment of my life. I’m making small talk with my kidnapper while trying to keep him conscious, all while creeping down the snowy highway toward his house. “I noticed your tattoo. Do you play?”
“Yeah, I…build them.” His eyes dance over to the guitar charm dangling from the mirror.
“You build guitars?”
Those eyes start to close, his head drooping.
“Hey! Chase, whoa, stay with me. Keep talking.” Frantic, I shimmy my way onto the center console, squeezing between the seats until I clumsily plop into the passenger seat. “Shit. Please don’t black out.”
The car swerves, and I reach for the wheel.
“Keep your foot on the pedal.”
Blinking, he frowns, moaning in agony.
“Come on. Say something. You’re going to be fine. We’re almost there.”
“I’m…so sorry…”
My free hand flies to his leg, adding pressure to the wound. He’s lost so much blood. “This is a great song. Do you know it?”
His throat bobs through a swallow.
I start singing along, trying to keep him present, awake,alive.
A groggy smile twitches on his mouth, his eyes half-lidded. “You’re a good…singer.”
Blood oozes onto my palm as I press harder against his thigh, my attention split between the windshield and his face. I look up as a suburban part of town comes into view, a few approaching headlights warped by snow. A stoplight takes shape through the blustery haze, glowing red. “We have to stop. Red light.”
His head lolls to the side.
“Chase, red light!” My bloodied hand slaps against his cheek, jarring him back awake.
“Shit,” he grunts, slamming on the brake.
My pulse jackhammers in my ears as residential homes loom ahead. I recognize the area. Silverleaf is just past this next intersection. “We’re almost there, okay? I love your dog’s name. What breed?”
“Stella…” he says, hardly audible.
“Is that your girlfriend?” The light turns green, and I tap his cheek, once, twice. “Green light.”
He blinks several times, forcing himself to stay coherent. The car rolls forward, losing traction in the snow as I even out the wheel.
“Sheltie,” he exhales, breaths stuttered, his limbs trembling as sweat dots his hairline.
“I love Shelties,” I say. “Tell me about your tattoo. My brother has one that’s similar.” I purposely pivot the conversation again, attempting to keep his mind sharp.
“Mm,” is all he mutters.
We’re going slow enough that I could easily escape the car and run to the nearest gas station, restaurant, convenience store, anything.
But I don’t.
Empathy pokes through my self-preservation, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. All I know is that I couldn’t live with myself when the news broke that my brother’s car was located on the side of the road, the driver DOA.
“We’re almost there.” I return my hand to his leg, the denim sticky and wet. “The street is on the right. I’ll turn the wheel, you press on the gas.”
