“Please…” I shook my head, ready to plead. “Please don’t.” We approached my house, and I grabbed my bag and flute off the floor. “Stop here,” I told him. “I’m not afraid of your brother, Em.” “Please just drop me here,” I bit out. “Stop the truck, Will. Please.” “Okay.” He quickly pulled over to the curb, sliding behind Mrs. Costa’s Buick.
