I stay in the car while Joey takes our father into the hospital. In the back seat of his cramped Volvo, I try to stretch out and can’t, so I settle for curling up in a fetal position, my head in my arms to block out the light. The aspirin has kicked in, making me feel fuzzy and disoriented. I want to die. Hell, I don’t even want to go through the hassle of dying—I just want to be dead already, is that too much to ask?
At some point I drift off. I only know I’ve been asleep when the slamming of the car door wakes me up. “Thanks for all your help,” Joey mutters as he starts the car.
Stretching awake, I yawn. “Don’t mention it.”
He hits the brakes, sending me to the floor boards. My head starts to throb again where it strikes the back of his seat. I punch the seat, low, hoping he feels it
