Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story.

Thanks for your comments. If you have anything to suggest or if you see a discrepancy in some details or facts, don't be afraid to point that out, too. Also, sorry this took so long, but Rochelle is a knot harder to untie than you'd think.

3: Rochelle

Back in High school, I used to babysit my younger cousin everyday after classes until her parents got home, and every afternoon she would watch The Magic School Bus religiously, even if it was a re-run. And in every episode, the most reserved kid with a bad rep and perpetually cold feet would always say, "I knew I should've stayed home today."

I'd heard rumors about the Green Flu (otherwise known as the Eastern Eater, or to some at the news station, Karma) for weeks. New York was plagued with it like they were plagued with cockroaches and rats. Pennsylvania moaned and groaned over being sneezed on by their neighbors, and soon the flu was an issue there, too. But, being that I worked in a media center, I assumed that all the rumors I'd been hearing (high fatality rates, unusual behavior, gross side-effects and mutilations) were just rumors; you learned to report whatever sounded good, whether it was truth or not, and boy, was it easy to separate truth and rumor. That, and I could really give two shits about what was happening in New York, let alone Pennsylvania.

When my boss called me a week and a half ago to give me a semi-promotion to cover the story on the first evac center in Savannah, Georgia, all those rumors were farts in the wind.

"What do you mean, they're all 'out of commission'?" I said, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I took another bite of cereal. I was getting tired of cereal by then. You'd think working for a news station would get you more than minimum wage, but when you're a lowly associate producer, the only thing you can afford to buy is a roof and several boxes of cereal to eat.

"I mean they're all out of commission. Called in sick."

"What, everyone?"

"Everyone. I'm trying to cover half of their jobs."

"So, what, do I get a bonus for this?" My mouth was half-full of cereal, but at this point, I didn't care about manners. No more Mister Nice Girl. "You know what, Mr. Krimpton? No. You can do your own goddamn intern work. I'm not going to come in on my day off just to fetch your coffee and forge your signature on all the overdue paperwork for pennies an hour."

At this point I started marching around my living room, which was also my bedroom, and coincidentally my dining room, jabbing my spoon in the air. "I've slaved myself away for your useless newscast—hell, even the makeup crew bossed me around—and I've had it. I QUIT!"

The moment the words flew out of my mouth, I stopped dead by my futon. I couldn't believe I said it. I'd grown up class geek, I'd been pushed around, and I always stayed polite, quiet, introverted, staying passive aggressive all the way through college, through my career. I would always grumble miserably to myself, but when it came to facing up to Jerry, or anybody on the production crew, I stayed as docile as a lamb.

Hell, I didn't even want to quit. I needed this job. Like, no-more-cereal needed it.

"I..." I stuttered, letting the spoon drop to the floor. An apology was bound to fly out my mouth at any second. Of course I'll come in to work Mr. Krimpton, just give me ten minutes and I'll be there. Do you want a caramel macchiato today, or a vanilla bean latte? But I didn't say anything. The line was dead silent for what felt like a solid thirty seconds before I heard Jerry sigh on the other end of the line.

"You can't quit. Not this weekend. Because I'm promoting you to newscast director."

My jaw fell open, and I closed it the moment I remembered I still had cereal in there. "What happened to Ursula?" I said, instead of: "About time, you ungrateful douche."

"Ursula's sick. Haven't you been listening to me? Jesus."

"Sor—I mean... newscast director?"

"Yes." His voice was getting short.

"Oh my God," I said with a laugh, then pulled the phone away from my ear and cheered in the room.

"Mr. Krimpton, that's great! I can't believe this!" Of course, my mind suddenly chose to forget that it wasn't the flu any of those people had, but the Green Flu. The one that was rumored to be killing people by the handfuls. This was the sickness that apparently had New York on its knees and Pennsylvania begging for mercy. I chose to ignore all that, because everything I'd been hoping for since I was accepted into college was finally being delivered on a silver platter to my feet.

"Yeah, well," he said, clearing his throat, "turns out I need you to go with Jacob and Morgan down to Georgia, do a story on the evacuation station that's opened up. I need you to leave in the hour."

"Absolutely!" I said, my elation still speaking for me, my brain still blocking out everything it didn't want to know. One, it was pretty damn dangerous, and two, it was in Savannah: the twelve hour drive to hell.

"Right. Well. Meet at the station; you three are taking a van."

"Okay, Jerry, okay!" By then he'd already hung up the phone, so I tossed mine onto the couch and put my cereal down to do another victory cheer. I realized, though, that the first time I'd cheered, I spilled milk and chunks of cornflakes all over my shirt and jeans.

"Oh... shit," I muttered, but I was still grinning like an idiot. I was newscast director. Newscast director.

I hadn't done my laundry in a week, and as a result, I just had my pink Depeche Mode shirt and the skinny jeans I hadn't worn in two years lingering in my closet/study. Even though they were my least favorite clothes, I threw them on with a smile on my face. After I jumped into my boots, I fled out the door, stuffing my toothbrush in my bag and throwing my coat over my shoulders. I could've walked on water and choreographed a river dance at that point.

I met up with the others at the station, and Jerry gave us visitor passes to the evac center, along with the keys to a van, a company credit card and cellphone, and some info sheets. "Study 'em on your way in," he'd said. He paused in front of me as I flipped through them, and I glanced up when he didn't leave after a moment. "Yeah, Mr. Krimpton?"

When I met his eyes, he looked away, muttering, "That's all," then left the room.

The other two weren't nearly as excited as I was; both of them had puffy, pink-rimmed eyes, and they kept yawning over their coffees constantly. Morgan kept groaning: "I'm not even supposed to be here today."

I hopped into the van to take the first shift driving, being that I was the most awake and hyperactive. "All right, ladies and gentlemen," I said, twisting the ignition and watching the hula girl on the dashboard dance, "let's get this party started!"

Twenty minutes into the car ride, the silence started to get stifling. Jacob leaned his head against the window, and Morgan rifled through her makeup bag, sniffling a mile a minute. "God, were the hell is my concealer? Where the fuck is it?"

I glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, swallowing my groan. She'd been complaining about almost every cosmetic in her collection, saying it was missing, or being "a piece of shit" or "stupid." Morgan had to be the most watered-down person I knew with an inflated ego. Her skills in reading off a speech that someone else had written for her were superb, and the ability for her appearance to spring into radiance with a dab of a $55 chemical was astonishing. Short version, she was good at being a mindless puppet for the camera, and I hated her.

In fact, I hated a lot of people pretty easily. I never had any true friends in grade school; I hated the crassness of my class all the way through college, cringing every time they dished out a student cliché (I deserve an A, end all poverty, socialism is evil); I hated my landlady, my coworkers, my boss, and everyone in between.

Okay, I suppose "hate" is a strong word, but it better conveys the boiling heat I feel when someone speaks and a pile of bullshit tumbles from their mouth like a steaming pile of stupidity.

"Rochelle, do you have any eyeliner in your bag?" she grumbled, reaching for my purse sitting between me and Jacob.

"Don't touch my bag," I said haughtily. "I don't have anything in there for you."

"Fine. Jeez." Under her breath, she muttered, "Bitch."

"Oh my God," Jacob sighed, running his hands through his shoulder-length black hair. "It's only been twenty minutes. Twenty minutes."

And, even though Jacob reflected the kind of sentiments I had for other people (ex. inflamed hatred), him moaning and bitching about our griping and growling made me feel just as irritated towards him.

I felt a snarky comment rising in my throat, but those kinds of comments never got past my gates. Even though I was a pretty short-tempered person, I rarely let it show. It wasn't because of lack of trying; I just attributed it to the fact that I was never really brave enough to give people a piece of my mind, save for a few rare instances in my life (like my rage bubble exploding on Jerry just that very morning, and a mascot at Disneyland who looked at me funny back when I was seven). So, instead of exploding on my coworkers only twenty minutes into our drive, I let a tight smile stretch across my face as I punched the on button to the radio. All that came out was static.

I fiddled with the tuner, flashing my eyes between the freeway and the radio, but as the dial worked it's way from 87.1 to 106.5, all we got was fuzz.

"Must be the antenna," I concluded, switching to the tape player. Luckily for us, there was something in there, and it started playing.

Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night

I can see paradise by the dashboard light...

"Hey, Meatloaf," I said, smiling at Jacob, who still looked as lively as a corpse. "Not bad, huh?"

By the time we crossed into West Virginia, we'd listened to the tape three times over. Even though it was filling the not-so unwelcome silence between the three of us, I was starting to get tired of hearing the Bat get out of Hell so many times, so I turned it off for a rest. We would've changed the tape, except the fact that it was permanently stuck inside.

Morgan gave a wet sneeze and then shivered, sounding something like a lame dog. "Hey, Rochelle, can I borrow your jacket? I'm getting kind of cold."

I handed her my jacket, which was resting on the armrest between me and Jacob. She snatched it from me, muttered a thanks, then wrapped it around herself. "I just feel like my bones are ice."

"Sounds like you're coming down with something," Jacob said, looking over his shoulder at her. "Maybe you should pop some Ibuprofen and take a nap before we get there."

"Rochelle, do you have any Ibuprofen?"

"No."

"Can we stop once we get to Charleston? I'm kind of hungry, too."

"Anything else?" I snapped.

"Hey, piss off, okay, it was just a question."

If I listened closely, I bet I could've heard my rage bubble expanding. But I tried to calm my nerves and give her a little sympathy."Yeah. We'll stop there for some lunch and a potty break. How's that?"

We passed through Charleston and kept heading south, not even half of the way there. Jacob took the wheel after we stopped in at a Burger Tank, and I took to flipping through the package Jerry gave us. I didn't read any of it, because I had a weak stomach for driving and reading, and it didn't make odds better that I'd read it successfully with a stomach full of grease and fat.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, save for Morgan making us pull over a couple of times to puke on the side of the road. She said she'd never been so motion sick before, and she didn't know where to attribute it to. She resorted to trying to sleep the rest of the trip, shivering underneath mine and Jacob's the entire way. I looked to check up on her when we were three hours from Savannah, only to find her in cold sweats with an even more pale complexion than before.

"You sure you'll be able to go in front of the camera tonight?" I asked, talking over the music that we'd turned on again for the umpteenth time.

"Nothing a little... makeup won't fix," she said in a sigh.

"Where'd you catch the cold?" I said, genuinely concerned for her health and what it would do for my story.

"My boyfriend," she said with a moan, digging herself deeper under the coats. "He came home late last night feeling like shit and trying to cuddle up to me to keep warm. Bastard made me ill."

"So you're here to pass on the favour," Jacob stated, smiling to himself like he was such a clever smartass.

I could almost hear her roll her eyes. "Just let me sleep."

So Jacob and I chatted on the way to the evac center quietly, being sure not to wake her highness. Okay, so that's not fair—she wasn't feeling all that hot, and she could've used a little R & R. But even if she wasn't sick, she'd still be a little whiny bitch. After Jacob took the last driving shift, I started singing along mindlessly with Meatloaf.

And all the gods come down here just to sing for me

And the melodies gonna make me fly

Without pain

Without fear

Give me all of your dreams

And let me go along on your way...

"...I've got a taste of trash... I'm gonna let it slip away..."

"Hey, you're ruining it," Jacob said.

"Heaven can wait... stick it where the sun don't shine..."

By the time we drove into Savannah's city limits, I'd never hated Meatloaf more. But when we drove past the line up and up to the front of the evac center, I forgot all about Meatloaf, and I felt more excited than a rich fat kid in a candy shop. My first job looked rich with context and story, and I could hardly wait to dive in and roll around in it like a pig bathes in mud.

"Look at that," Jacob said, marveling at the line of parked cars filled with families. Sedans, compacts, station wagons, pickup trucks, some new, some looking as if the wheels were about to rust off the axles, things that hadn't been driven in years. It had stretched for at least two miles back, each packed with suitcases, some overflowing with junk that people obviously thought they couldn't live without. Civilians amassed everywhere; most were lined along a chain-link fence that'd been set up by state police to keep them out. As we drove past the fence, people were branding signs at us, like "CEDA IS NOT YOUR FRIEND," and "GOD'S WRATH HAS FALLEN."

"Oh, Jesus," Jacob said, watching all the people. "I was hoping there wouldn't be any fire and brimstone freaks here, but I suppose I couldn't expect anything less."

"Of course," I said. "There'd be religious protests at a racecar derby saying it was Satan's sport. Maybe we can get a shot of them later, might make for good atmosphere in the story."

Jacob put the van in park near the front next to all the other news vans, then we hopped out. Morgan stayed resting in the back. I stretched my arms and felt my back pop, sighing as I let myself fall limp again. Twelve hours in one van was like Chinese water torture, except less water drops and more of "I need to puke again, pull over."

"You're the reporters? From Ohio?"

I turned to see a guy in a hazmat suit standing in front of me. The thick yellow rubber was a little intimidating; he looked like a Sasquatch, and he gave off the vibe that he was superior, an Untouchable, and we were already dead meat because we didn't have the same suit he had. I managed a crooked smile—a mix of my elation and my nervousness—and nodded.

"Eyewitness 10 News," I said, motioning to the print on the side of the van. "That's us."

"I need to see your guest passes, please," he said. I opened the passenger door and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the laminated cards. I handed them to him, and he glanced them over, giving a quick nod from behind his Plexiglas mask. "All right, just keep these on you at all times. Whenever you're ready to enter the facility, let us know."

"Got it," I said, slipping mine into my pocket. I handed one to Jacob, and then started helping Jacob unload the van. Morgan still lay on the back seat, sighing out her breaths. She still looked worse for wear, and instead of worrying about her, I felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Should've told Jerry you were sick before you came all the way to Nowhere, USA," I grumbled, shaking her shoulder. "Hey, Morgan, you gonna be good to start reporting?"

"Yuh. Jus' gimmie a few minuhs..."

"Okay," I sighed, then turned to see Jacob handing me my sheets. I couldn't read them all drive, and even when we made pit stops, I found it hard to focus on the page without upchucking my burgers and fries. I plucked them from his hands with a smile on my face. "Awww, you just know what I need, don't you?"

"I bet you say that to all the boys," he said, grinning up at me.

My smile cracked. "Jacob, if you quote any more of that Meatloaf album, I will—"

"Have you guys seen my makeup kit?" Morgan interrupted, slurring her speech. We looked at her, seeing her eyes roll around in her head. She moaned low again, then shifted to the side.

"Well," Jacob said, "how charismatic are you on camera?"

"I'm hoping I'm pretty damn good."

Before I even read the first line of the package, the cell phone Jerry gave me went off. I plucked it from my belt and checked the caller ID, and sure enough, Jerry was phoning to check up on us. I blew out a breath like a steam whistle, then flipped open the receiver. "Hey, Mr. Krimpton—"

"Rochelle, are you at the evac station yet?"

"Yeah, Mr. Krimpton, we just got here."

"Just stick with Jacob," he said, but his voice was watery. He coughed funny and sighed, like he had something to say but couldn't force himself to say it. "Uh... have you looked over the package yet?"

"It's in my hand right now, just about to read it," I said, leaning up against the van. "I get motion sick easily, so I didn't look it over sooner. Listen, Jerry, Morgan's not feeling too hot, so..."

1. Introductory to evacuation center entrance, Morgan, foreground; entrance, background: pan shot—Savannah, Georgia: the first city of the state to be hit by the infamous Green Flu, which has spread across the Eastern seaboard in a matter of weeks. The following is an exploration of the evacuation center for your edification and safety. If you have small children in the room, it is advised you ask them to step out.

"Rochelle... listen..." he stammered, doing his funny cough again. He went silent for a moment, humming to himself.

"Jerry?"

2. Interview: CEDA medic in infirmary tent: foreground, subject; background, infected individual.

"Rochelle, I want to apologize."

Jacob hauled the camera onto his shoulder and switched it on, turning to Morgan who was still stretched out across the seat. "Hey, baby, you come here often?" he joked, guffawing to himself as she continued to mutter incoherently in her sleep.

"What do you mean?" I asked Jerry, looking down the list again.

a) Q: How do you treat the infected?

"I mean I need to apologize for what I've put you through."

I smiled a little, giving a short laugh. "You mean all the bitch work you made me do? It's nothing, Jerry. Even though I'm only here because I was your last resort, I'll take pride in knowing you at least considered me as any resort to begin with."

Jacob turned the camera toward me, giving the universal sign for "How long?" I held up three fingers, assuming three minutes was how long it would take for Jerry to stop being so sentimental and actually let me do my job.

"No, Rochelle," he said solemnly, "for knowingly throwing you into the lion's den."

b) Q: How do you deal with a hostile infected?

"Hostile?" I whispered out loud without realizing it. I frowned again, and Jerry stayed silent as I kept on reading down the list.

c) Q: The military advises the public arm themselves in their safe houses, but CEDA's certified safe rooms have banned the possession of firearms. Where does the discrepancy arise?

"Jerry, what's going on?" I said, my eyes bugging in horror and my heart thumping hard in my chest. Firearms? For a flu?

He gulped in some air. "Channel 10 was commissioned by CEDA to report the infection as a flu. The Green Flu, they wanted us to call it, because it conveyed more urgency than just a normal illness, because people could tell at least that this was something different from a flu to begin with. Yes, it has a higher mortality rate, and even higher virulence, but it also has a tendency to create antagonistic behaviors in its victims, and they lose all human inhibitions and attack others on sight."

3. Infected ward (CEDA DEAD trailers): stationary shot.

4. CEDA advisory posters: still frame.

5. Interview: Green Flu field researcher: foreground, subject; background, DEAD trailer.

a) Q: What is known of the infection thus far?

b) Q: What advice to you give to those being attacked by an infected?

c) Q: How long does it take for an individual to succumb to the symptoms of the Green Flu?

6. Morgan, foreground; evac center, background—it is expected by CEDA officials that the infection will spread throughout all of North America within the next two months. It is highly advised to collect on ample provisions, construct a safe house as prescribed by CEDA, or leave the country by the most accessible and safest means possible. Do not come into contact with any of the infected; protect yourself accordingly; keep your health documentation in your possession at all times; and do not attempt by any means of entering quarantined cities or zones established by CEDA. Remember to maintain a healthy state of mind, and take any steps necessary as outlined by Civil Defense to protect yourself and your family. This is Morgan Bemeau, Eyewitness 10 News, reporting.

"Rochelle?" Jerry said, snapping me back to reality.

"Jerry."

"Rochelle, the infection, it..." he stuttered. "It's the fucking apocalypse, Rochelle, I'm serious."

"Jerry..."

"I knew all this, and I still sent you in to do the story. I thought if I told you, you wouldn't do it, but when I found out all the staff had died except a handful, I knew I needed you to report the story that needed to be told, because... because we're all going to die if CEDA keeps handling this like they are, and I didn't want to get eaten alive knowing there was something I could've done to save more people..."

I was dead quiet as Jerry started sobbing on the other end. Jacob was watching me with the camera, his face creased with worry, probably reflecting my own. Infection. High mortality rate. Hostility. Apocalypse.

"Listen," Jerry said, sniffing loudly, "First sign of trouble, you three jump in the van and come straight home, all right? If there's any attacks, any chance you'll get sucked in to that evac center and become a zombie, you get the hell out—"

The line went dead, and I pulled the phone away from my ear slowly to look at it, as if I couldn't move any faster, or I was too afraid to even exist. The screen on the receiver read: Connection Lost, and the signal icon had a comical X over it.

"Hey, Ro," Jacob said, approaching me. "What'd the boss have to say?"

I closed the phone, avoiding looking at Jacob. Because, I thought, if I looked him in the eye, he would see how scared shitless I was, and he would know, too. "He said we do as much as we can. If we leave early, he'll have no complaints."

Jacob huffed. "Well, that's a new one. Mr. Prestige always wants his shots exactly as he says or there's no fruitcake next Christmas bonus."

Zombie, was all I was hearing.

I slipped the cell phone back on to my belt slowly, trying to get my mind into gear. "Is the camera ready?"

"Yup. Oh, well, almost. I have to get the hard disk in and cleared first."

"All right," I said softly. He went back into the van to get the hard disk. I could hear Morgan moaning more loudly from the van, and a CEDA worker heard it, too. He started towards me, his eyes glued to the open van door where Morgan was visible.

"Is your colleague feeling ill?" he asked, looking at me pointedly. He towered over me and pointed over at Morgan, scowling at me like he was scolding a kid.

"Yeah, actually," I said, shrinking a little. "Since this morning."

He grabbed me roughly by the arm, and I tried to shrug him off. "Why didn't you report that?"

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Shit," he muttered, waving to a group of his colleagues frantically. "Level One, we've got a Level One!"

Morgan called out in her sleep, and it seemed shit stopped the moment everyone honed in on her. I suppose that's when I realized that we were doing a report on the Green Flu, and that was just what Morgan had had all this time.

"Shit," I muttered, stepping back. All of the sudden, we were swarmed by hazmat suits. Morgan groaned a little louder as two men grabbed her from the van and pulled her away. When she opened her eyes, she looked right at me, showing me the lifeless glaring white they had in them. Then she opened her mouth and let out a loud, horrifying shriek.

My hands flew to my ears, and all of the sudden, the din of the protesters along the fence morphed into a chorus of cries. It wasn't a typical scream you'd usually expect from a vain, self-centered prima donna. Hell, it wasn't a sound you'd expect form a human being. It sounded like a mix of nails running down a chalkboard with metal gears grinding and a a dinosaur roaring.Everyone's face twisted into an expression of pain as she screamed, and I thought at first that the CEDA workers dropped Morgan, but as she tore away down the road, I realized she'd overpowered them.

"Contain the infected!" one of the guys in the suits said. "Do not use excessive force! Contain the infected!"

After Morgan stopped shrieking, there were other screams to replace hers. The civilians on either side of the fence started scattering, screaming incoherently. Jacob had ended up on the ground somehow, the camera strewn a couple feet away. His hands were still over his ears, and he kept muttering, "Shit, shit, shit," over and over. I could practically feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like lava, and my heart probably could have beat its way out of my chest, it was pumping so hard.

I ran up to the camera, picking it up and flicking the record function. It still worked, and the screen behind the eye piece flickered to life. I panned the line of cars, watching the people start them and drive off or abandon them altogether. I turned to the gates of the evac center just in time to see the buses roaring to life, ready to take away the people who were already fortunate to be inside. They were too late to evacuate everyone; the infection was already here, and we brought it right to their doorstep.

Underneath all the screaming and shouting from the people around us, I could barely hear something else, something almost animal. Jacob suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, and when I turned to him, I caught a shot of him pointing frantically into the distance. I zoomed in with the lens to see the people who'd been running from the area being swiped down and beaten by a group of more people.

"Holy shit!" I shouted, lowering the camera and grabbing a handful of Jacob's shirt. "We gotta get out of here! Move!"

I threw the camera into the van a little less than gracefully, then slammed the door shut. Jacob tore open the passenger side of the door, sliding across the seat to the driver's side. I dove in after him, and as I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of a crowd of people running towards us with alarming speed.

"Jacob," I shouted at him uneasily, "get this goddamn van started!"

"Shit!" he cried, twisting the ignition fiercely. The engine failed to spark. "Shit!"

"Jacob!" The group got closer. A bus drove out of the gates of the evac center, passing us by and plowing through a horde of the charging mob. My hands flew over my mouth as a strangled scream escaped me.

The engine finally caught, and Jacob immediately pulled the van into drive and threw us around, driving back the way we came, through the ranks of what I now could see were legions of infected.

"They're not moving!" Jacob shouted.

"Just drive over them!"

Sickening thump after thump, Jacob pummeled into the infected. The van jumped and slid occasionally from the sheer number of people in the way, and I kept screaming every time one of them swiped at the windows, or when I could hear one of their strangled cries as we ran them over. The more people we ran over, the harder it was to tell who was infected and who wasn't.

Jacob kept driving for half an hour at top speed, long after we cleared the danger. The van's windshield resembled a morbid spider's web; it was cracked, covered in blood and pieces of unidentifiable body parts, and had a distinct impression of a human face in the lower corner on Jacob's side. When we made it back to the junction on the highway, there were already roadblocks in place. Jacob pulled over on the service road and put the van in park. The only sound was of us breathing and the music of Meatloaf, which had been playing the entire time we mowed down infected after infected. Zombie after zombie.

There's evil in the air and there's thunder in the sky

And a killer's on the bloodshot streets

And down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising...

"Did you get some shots?" Jacob breathed, still gripping the wheel, staring through the only clear spot on the windshield that was left.

"Ya-huh," I whispered back, still panting heavily.

"I think maybe we should head back home now," he muttered, his knuckles tightening on the wheel.

I should've stayed home today, I thought to myself.