"There's a kid in the car—how can you smoke in here?!"
Morton couldn't have cared less. He deliberately blew a smoke ring toward me and Tommy, then let out a scornful laugh.
"What kind of man doesn't smoke? Might as well toughen the little guy up early."
Bernice chimed right in.
"Only your kid's precious, apparently. Daisy's sitting right here and she's fine."
The cigarette smoke and all the noise set Tommy off again. He started wailing.
I scrambled to soothe him, but Bernice was already complaining.
"God, that's annoying! Can you control your son?"
"This new car of yours is cramped. So uncomfortable. My friend's car has way more room."
"If I'd known it was going to be this tight, I never would've gotten in. And I definitely wouldn't have put up with your attitude."
My scalp prickled with rage. It felt like a boulder had lodged itself in my chest.
I turned to Lambert.
"Pull over at the next rest stop. I'm getting out."
Bernice jumped in before he could answer, her voice dripping with mockery.
"We just got on the road and you already want to call yourself a cab? Can you stop being so dramatic?"
Morton cracked his knuckles, eager.
"Yeah, let's stop at the next one. Lambert's been driving over an hour—he's gotta be tired. I'll take over for a while."
My stomach dropped. I turned to look at him.
"Do you have a license?"
Something flickered in Morton's eyes, but he didn't miss a beat.
"Sure do."
The car pulled into the rest stop. I carried Tommy out, pretending I needed to nurse him.
I opened a rideshare app and quietly requested a car.
Bernice seemed to read my mind. She stuck to me like a shadow.
"Don't tell me you're actually going to be that pathetic and call a ride from here."
I swallowed my anger and ignored her, silently willing someone to accept the request. No one did.
Meanwhile, Lambert finished his cigarette and started rushing everyone back to the car.
Bernice shoved me along, practically stuffing me into the back seat.
That was when I realized Morton was sitting behind the wheel.
He was holding up his phone, snapping a photo of the Mercedes emblem on the steering wheel. A second later, he posted it to social media.
New ride, smooth handling.
I spoke up immediately.
"Lambert, don't let him drive! He doesn't have a license—this is dangerous!"
Bernice exploded.
"What's that supposed to mean? You just look down on Morton, is that it? Who says he doesn't have a license?"
Morton thumped his chest with one hand.
"Relax. Got my license ages ago. I'm a steady driver."
My heart shot into my throat. I lunged for the door handle.
Locked. Morton floored the gas and the car lurched forward.
I knew that saying anything else would only provoke him, so I pressed my lips shut.
Please. Please let nothing happen.
Morton was clearly a novice, but his driving habits were beyond reckless.
He slammed the brakes constantly, cut across lanes on a whim, steered with one hand, and hummed along to some song the entire time.
Within minutes, he nearly sideswiped a freight truck because he'd changed lanes without signaling.
A few minutes after that, he looked down at his phone and almost rear-ended the sedan ahead of us.
Lambert screamed "BRAKE!" and Morton jerked, stomping on the pedal in a panic.
The sudden stop threw Daisy forward in the back seat. Her forehead cracked against the headrest, and a lump swelled up instantly.
Bernice blamed the car.
Other drivers cursed at us the whole way.
I sat rigid in the back, clutching Tommy against my chest, and demanded again that Lambert take the wheel.
Bernice shut it down.
"He finally gets a chance to practice and you can't even let him have that?"
"You just look down on us. Admit it!"
Lambert frowned and said:
