“Thanks,” he croaks. His unnatural gyrations are freaking me out. I ease the car into traffic.
He babbles about hiding from the police.
I’m brimming with a host of different emotions. His right elbow bangs sharply against the passenger window.
“Stop thrashing around.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
But he can’t stop, limbs flailing with the frantic limpness of an exhausted swimmer. And he’s oblivious to it all until he knocks the car out of gear, and I bark at him. He apologizes and stops, but only for a moment because the meth addict’s version of St. Vitus’ Dance won’t let him.