“How much further? I can’t hardly feel my legs.”
I ignore him, a superhuman effort. Twenty minutes we’ve been driving – twenty minutes of non-stop complaints. As a reward for rescuing him: this unending list.
I think I’ve made a mistake.
With a gentle touch on the clutch I shift down a gear, slamming the accelerator into the floor. The engine screams its protest, drowning out his whining with its own.
As we drive the burning city casts our shadows ahead of us as we leave it behind. As we leave his questions behind us.
“Yes, this is my car.”
“Yes, I made it myself – and yes, it does work.”
“No, I’m not fucking joking. Just get in the fucking car.”
I hope I haven’t made a mistake.
We need his help.