Through the dots, I only get a profile first. Strong nose. Dark hair. He feels…familiar. Too familiar.
“A-andy?” I croak.
His eyes flick toward me, then focus on the road again.
“You’re awake sooner than I expected,” he says calmly.
As if it’s nothing. As if we’re having a normal conversation. As if he didn’t just kidnap me from the hospital. I swallow, my throat still dry and burning.
“What are you doing?”
The question sounds weak, even to me.
He looks over at me again, a faint smile touching his lips.
“I’m taking you home.”
The words settle in the car heavy, despite his light tone. I blink at him, trying to force my brain to work through the fog. We’re heading north. My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.
Home is the other way.
My heart hammers painfully in my chest, and I try to take a calming breath. He’s taking me tohishome. Not mine.
Stay calm.
“What did you give me?”
“Something mild,” he answers. “You need to rest.”
He speaks like the Andy I know. Soft, warm and comforting. But right now I don’t recognize him, and I’m anything but comfortable.
Another sign passes us in a blur. We’re moving fast. My head throbs harder.
Think.
Think.
Fighting him in a moving car isn’t an option. My arms feel like they’re filled with wet sand, and every breath scrapes against my fractured ribs. I need him to stop the car.
My stomach churns again. Part drug, part concussion. Part opportunity. I close my eyes and lean forward as best as I can.
“Andy,” I say quietly as sweat beads on my forehead.
He glances over.
“I’m going to be sick.”
He frowns. “Deep breaths, Ash. In and out, nice and slow.”
“I’m serious,” I whisper, bringing my bound hands to my mouth. “Pull over.” My stomach lurches again for emphasis. “I don’t want to throw up in your car.”
He studies me for a second longer, then sighs before bringing the car to a slow.
“Fine.”
Ahead, a green sign appears through the windshield.
Rest Area - 1 mile
