22I reached over and fastened the seat belt across my father’s lap. He sat as if in a stupor, his chin forward on his chest, his eyes closed. His breathing was labored and the air whistling out smelled of acetone, like the breath of a feverish child.
Erika was watching us in the mirror. “Is he okay?” she asked.
“No.” My fingers touched the back of his hand. “Dad?”
He didn’t react. Maybe he was hurting from all the sudden movements, but that didn’t explain why he suddenly seemed so out of touch. I had to get help for him.
But first we had to deal with his carry-on luggage. The plastic bag was slick beneath my fingers, the weight ominously heavy on my lap. I yearned to pull up beside the next Dumpster and heave it away. But that would endanger anyone nearby when it exploded. We had to di
