“Just as I thought.” I pull out in a rush. “Where to?”
He mumbles something.
“I beg your pardon?” My eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.
“I said . . . 123 the Boulevard!”
I narrow my eyes. “If you speak to me in that tone, I will drop you off right here.”
“Sorry . . . ,” he mumbles.
We stop at some traffic lights, and I quickly type in the address.
It’s forty minutes away . . . ugh. The lights change. I take off once more. We’ve been driving for a few minutes when I make a wonderful discovery.
I can actually do this.
Half an hour later we are stopped at a set of traffic lights.
He moans from the back seat, and my eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.
He’s wet with perspiration, and his face is contorted.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I don’t feel so good . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh no . . .” He moans.
“What’s oh no?” I begin to drive faster. I want this fucker out of my cab.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
My eyes widen in horror. “Don’t even think about it!”
HAYDEN
I walk out of the airport and am met with a surge of heat. “Oh, it’s hot.”
People are rushing past, and I struggle with my oversize backpack. Damn, this thing is heavy.
I see the cab line and take out my phone and bring up the address of the backpackers’ hostel.
Nerves bumble around in my stomach. Just walk over there and get a cab.
That’s easy.
Right . . .
I steel myself and walk over and get into the back of the line. I feel sick with nerves. Damn, I just wish this first week was over already.
The whole thought of the unknown is just so unsettling. I get to the front of the line, and the cab pulls up, and I smile.
“Where to?” he asks.
“BB Backpackers in Barcelona, please?”
“Sure thing.” He takes my backpack and puts it into the trunk. I get into the back seat and put my seat belt on. I wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. This is fine . . . this is totally fine.
I text my mom,
Landed safely.
On my way in a cab.
A text bounces back:
This is so exciting,
Call me later.
I’m glad you think so. For me this is terrifying.
I put my phone back in my bag and clasp my hands together with white-knuckle force. I stare out the window at the scenery flying past.
Twenty minutes later the cab pulls to a halt in traffic. “Ay, ay, ay, what you doing?” the driver mutters under his breath.
I look up to see a cab in front of us is stopped in the middle of the road. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
The driver of the cab in the front jumps out of the car and opens the back door. He grabs a man by the shirt and hurls him out of the cab as he projectile vomits. The vomit hits the side of the car and sprays everywhere.