Channing is all efficiency instantly. Each decisive action he takes flows one into the next, a complex cascade with inexorable purpose. Releasing my neck, he jerks the wheel hard and eases his foot off the brake. The car inches forwards slowly, further onto the shoulder.
He applies the brake again. Slams the transmission into park. Clicks off the parking lights. Kills the engine. With one hand, he releases my seatbelt while his other uses the under-seat lever to roll the driver’s chair as far back on its rails as it will go. Then he undoes his seatbelt too.
Knocking his jacket off my shoulders, he closes his large paws at my waist. It speaks a frightening measure to the kind of strength he has at his disposal that he lifts me bodily out of my seat and onto his lap as if I weigh nothing
