Giovanni Cartucci Part 5

The first stars are out and they wander, twirl. I stumble to my feet and rub until the paste intertwining my eyelids comes off onto my fingers; I don't look because I know what it is. I struggle to the front of the car and collapse next to Maverick; he doesn't turn to face me, instead staring into the
vast desert extending past the horizon. Maverick is propped up against the grill, holding a 6-inch shard of broken glass in his right hand. His breathing is raspy.
"Jerk," he says, and it's meant for me. His white shirt is spoiled with a dye of blood, and I tenderly lift it off of him. The second half of the shard is wedged between two ribs; I pull it out with my fingernails, all 4 inches. Maverick hisses in pain as I do so, but he's not dead. That night, we rest beneath the car to be sheltered from the sorrow. Neither of us sleep.