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The Camaro's engine roared to life under Max's hands. She gripped the wheel like she'd done this a hundred times—maybe she had, watching Billy. Learning by necessity and that singular lap around a parking lot.
Jordan climbed into the passenger seat, shoulder protesting every movement. Sam slid into the back with Corey, one hand pressed to her side. The others piled in around them—Mike, Lucas, Dustin, Maya. Steve's unconscious body got shoved in last, his face already swelling.
"Does anyone else think this is a terrible idea?" Dustin asked.
"Yes." everyone said in unison.
Max turned the key. The Camaro lurched forward.
"Max, do you even have a license?" Lucas asked.
"Do you want to walk?" Max shot back.
Silence.
Jordan braced himself against the door as Max hit the gas. The Camaro fishtailed slightly before straightening out. His stomach churned—not from the driving, from the adrenaline crash creeping in. The fight with Billy had masked everything. Now his shoulder was screaming. His hands were shaking. And underneath it all, that familiar ache.
‘Not now. Not now. Not now.’
He pressed his palm against his thigh, trying to steady the tremor.
Max's eyes flicked to him. "You good?"
"Yeah," he lied. "Your driving's just terrifying."
She snorted. "You literally fought my brother with a dislocated shoulder."
"It's not dislocated—"
"It might as well be."
In the back, Sam was too quiet. Corey had his arm around her, keeping pressure on her side. Her face was pale, jaw tight. Maya was watching her with that look—the one that said ‘I know you're not okay but I don't know how to help.’
"Sam," Jordan turned in his seat. Regretted it immediately when his shoulder lit up. "You still with us?"
"Yeah." Her voice was thin. "Just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"That I almost shot someone's brother."
“ But you didn't.” Max said.
"You're not mad at me?" Sam asked. Max shook her head.
