After the hustle and blur of the ale house, the drive to Peter’s house was subdued. Peter sat in the passenger seat, curled into himself, his forehead against the window and both arms hugging his stomach, as if he might throw up after all. Jonathan didn’t relish the thought of driving home with the windows down in late January to get the stench of vomit out of his car and kept throwing worried glances his friend’s way. Every now and then, when they stopped at a red light or when Peter was quiet for too long, Jonathan would call out, “You alright over there?”
He always got a muffled groan in reply. Finally, after one time too many, Peter snapped, “Quit asking, will you? I’m not going to die in this bucket of bolts, believe me.”
Jonathan laughed softly. “If that happens, I’ll drive back to
