*ARIANA*
Maxwell drove like he was trying to outrun something. Jaw tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel, while his phone kept buzzing every few minutes in the cup holder. I knew who it was without looking.
The words kept looping in my head. 'Dad's been shot.'
"You look pale," Maxwell said. "Don't throw up in my car."
It wasn’t ‘are you okay,’ rather it was concern for his leather seats, as if they were more important than what was happening.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, fighting nausea. "I'm fine," I said.
I wasn't. But I'd learned not to show him that.
We pulled into the hospital parking lot. Maxwell was out before I finished unbuckling, striding toward the entrance like he had somewhere better to be.
I followed on shaky legs.
I spotted my family immediately, clustered
