Or trying to sleep.
Or lying in that state between sleeping and awake, a sort of light REM sleep.
Then imagine your phone rings.
Or someone pounds on the door.
You lie in bed for a moment, wondering who the hell’s bothering you.
Or maybe you know who it is.
Maybe you don’t want to answer the phone—or the door—and so you lie in bed.
Then, perhaps out of curiosity, you leap out of bed and grab the phone, or open the door.
Now imagine your cousin Rodney.
He wants your help.
Go into town with him and bail out his son, your second cousin.
Was it even possible to bail someone out at three in the morning?
Imagine thinking it over.
Or acquiescing and throwing on your clothes and shoes, grabbing your keys and wallet. Half asleep, maybe, you say you’ll go, but you don’t feel like driving.
You’re in the passenger seat now.
Racing down a county road.
You’re still trying to wake up, maybe. Rodney talks, spews the type of bullshit he’s known for spewing.
Maybe you listen, maybe you don’t.
Maybe you regret agreeing to this, maybe you’re happy to help.
But why’d you agree to do it?
At three o’clock in the fucking morning.
Rodney’s racing to town.
To bail out his son, his worthless son.
You’re going faster, faster. Continue reading