Carlos was dead. No one had to tell me that.
The worst part is, all I can remember is us running from the cops. Fleeing, practically.
We had just robbed a store.
It doesn't sound as bad as all that; we were robbing the store because we had run out of supplies, and we were going to make the trip north, to Alaska.
Carlos had just grabbed juice (milk wouldn't last unrefridgerated) and crackers; I had grabbed the chips, cereal and paper towels.
It was my fault. I should have made sure he was in front of me in the heat ducts. But no, Car always made me walk, or crawl, in front of him.
"You white girls trust too much," he always used to say. "I feel better when I'm protecting you."
"And you Latino boys protect us white girl too much, you know." I'd smile back.
"Sometimes," he'd, admit, and we would laugh.
I snapped back to the present at the sign of blaring sirens and flashing red and blue lights. I had to run.
Fast.