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Summary
“Can I give you a ride home?”
I look up and see Bishop’s hand outstretched towards me. My mind races to check in with my body. The blood on my face is drying and has turned sticky; a good sign I guess. My ears are still ringing from the explosions of the shotgun in a crowded space, but I think I hear a weight to his words that I can’t fully process in the aftermath of this heated moment. I’ll analyze it later. Right now, I just want to be in the safety of his car. Tinted windows down, wind in my face, this place in the rearview mirror.
I manage a small nod, “Yes.” I stir beneath the table I crawled behind to shield myself from the bullets. “You can.”
He doesn’t smile, but I can see the tension in his face ease as he takes my hand.