I’ve got that appointment with my parents at ten. My father’s too used to my brushes with death to let this appointment slide. “Is she safe here?”
“Noah, West, and I will watch over her,” Isaiah says. “We’ll protect her while she’s weak and can’t defend herself. Noah’s right—you look dead, man. Get some rest and think about what I said and then if you want, you can take a shift watching over Abby later.”
Our eyes meet and he’s telling me to reconsider my friendship with Abby. My gut and head are too twisted up. She’s a drug dealer. She was shot. I could have died in the process. But I’m exhausted. It’s the reason I can’t think.
I offer my hand to Isaiah and he accepts it with a quick pat to my back. “You need one of us to drive you home? Noah will take you, I’ll stay, and West will follow to bring Noah back.”
I shake my head. Last thing I need is any of them near my truck. My black bag of diabetes supplies was emptied onto the front seat. I don’t need their sympathy or having them believe I’m weak.
“Call if anything changes,” I say, they agree, and I begin the long walk down the hallway to the exit.
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