Page 90 of Severance

“It’s all right. I’m good.” Dakota straightens up.

“You’re too drunk to drive,” I insist, holding out my open palm for the keys.

“I’m not. I swear.” He touches the tip of his nose with his index finger. Casey’s right; my boyfriend’s a cute drunk with the mentality of a four-year-old, and the silly grin that doesn’t want to come off his face makes me feel weird things. I just want to cuddle and sing him a song. Although I’m a horrible singer.

Mikah stirs in the back. “He’s lying. His ass is fucking lightweight.”

I ignore the remark because I only have enough patience for one overconfident child right now.

“I swear I’m good.” Dakota spins in his seat looking for the seatbelt.

Last attempt. “I’m not going if you’re driving.”

“Oh, come on!” He slams both hands against the wheel like a little kid who’s not getting the candy he wants.

“I’m serious. You’ve had a lot to drink and I don’t want us to crash. I’ll drive.”

“This is a manual.”

“I’ve driven a manual before.”

He looks at me unblinkingly, as if I just told him I was from Jupiter. His mouth slants slightly.

“And she scores!” Mikah attempts to whistle, but what comes out of his mouth sounds more like a combination of wheezing and spitting.

“My father taught me how to drive in a manual,” I explain.

Dakota blows out a sigh of defeat and places his key in my palm.

After we switch seats, I turn on the overhead light and study the gears for a minute. The truth is, I’m not very good with manual because the extent of my knowledge doesn’t go beyond my driving lessons at the age of sixteen, but letting Dakota drive would be worse.

“Could you pass by McDonald’s drive-thru?” Mikah requests from the back as I slip the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life and the car jerks.

Dakota’s face twists in anguish.

“Can you please put your seatbelt on?” I try to get him occupied with something because his panic is distracting me.

“Hey!” Mikah calls out again. “Can you pass by McDonald’s?”

“Okay, sure,” I answer mechanically. My brain feels a bit overwhelmed at the moment, and I just want him to stop bugging me.

* * *

I’m not sure how what was supposed to be a quick drive-thru detour turned into a full-on late-night parking lot dinner. It’s hard to say whose idea it was—Mikah’s or Dakota’s—because they pretty much ganged up on me, and in order to stop them from whining, I had to honor their wishes.

The sounds of chewing, slurping, and wrappers crinkling inside the car deafen my poor ears as I watch them polishing off their Quarter Pounders as if they haven’t been fed in weeks. I wonder if this is the effect of the alcohol or if they’re always like this when they’re together.

“If I find one crumb, you’re taking it to the car wash.” Dakota thrusts his head between the seats and warns Mikah. His voice is still soft, but the food has sobered him up some.

“Fuck you,” his brother responds, undeterred.

“You know what, asshole…” Dakota tears a piece of his sandwich wrapper and tosses it at Mikah. “Eat this.”

The sound of drunken throaty laughter fills the back of the car.

I twist in my seat and see Dakota trying to rub something off the front of his coat. The sandwich in his hand begins to fall apart.

“Let me have it.” I slide my fries into the paper bag and motion for him to give me the rest of his food before it ends up on the floor.

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