“You have a favorite song, George?”
Marty felt wet creeping up his leg.
He hadn’t realized he had knelt in a puddle after the ambulance George refused took off.
It sprayed gravel, almost like the EMT was mad at George.
The puddle was just rainwater, not the blood and who knows what George had vomited so fiercely that the Yemeni kid in the Mobile station called an ambulance.
Marty walking up on the ambulance scene was a fluke.
The rain broke and he decided to walk instead of driving up Constance. Walked up Edwin, opposite way of the one-way traffic pattern, saw the flashers on the meat truck.
George wasn’t meat to him, George was special.
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