Walker handed him the information requested.
“Trailer’s empty. Just heading back home.”
The deputy frowned but nodded, looking over the papers in his hand.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Kota muttered approximately two seconds before he wrenched his door open and dry heaved onto the grass below.
“Who’s that with you?” the officer asked.
“My…friend,” Walker answered, distracted by both Cake escaping to the back of the rig and Kota groaning as he continued to lose the meager contents of his stomach.
The sound was miserable. Walker had heard people die with less drama.
“Friend?” Officer Petty asked, tone implying he wasn’t happy with that answer. “Can you both please exit the vehicle? Tell yourfriendI need some identification.”
Walker rubbed his hand over Kota’s back. The fabric of his hoodie was damp enough to cling to his skin.
“You okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Kota whispered.
The apology made something ugly twist in Walker’s chest.
“It’s alright,” Walker said, less concerned about the man with the badge and the gun than the boy currently puking beside him. “Where’s your ID?”
“In my backpack,” Kota said, looking a little green.
Walker looked at the officer. “I’m just going to get his backpack for him. He’s not feeling well. It’s just behind his seat.”
The officer’s hand floated to rest over his weapon. “Slowly.”
Walker nodded as Kota chanted, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
He grabbed Kota’s bag, rifling through pants and shirts, finding his beat-up wallet with the velcro closure at the verybottom. The thing looked like it had survived several natural disasters.
He handed it to Kota before opening the door and exiting the truck.
He hopped down, then turned. As suspected, Kota just climbed over Walker’s seat instead of walking around.
Walker helped him down from the truck, then sat him on the step beneath the door. Kota immediately put his head between his knees like he was preparing for impact. Walker waited for Kota to hand him his ID, but when he didn’t, Walker took the wallet back and handed it to the officer.
The officer studied Kota closely, taking in his disheveled appearance, his oversized clothes, and his now corpse-like pallor. His gaze lingered on the hoodie. The sweatpants. The fact that nothing Kota was wearing actually fit him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kota… Dakota King,” he mumbled, looking up, beads of sweat clinging to his temples.
The cop flicked his gaze to the license in his hand.
“Date of birth?”
Kota’s eyelids fell shut, and for a moment, Walker thought he might have passed out.
Finally, he said, “February 7th, 2004.”
Officer Petty frowned. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Two days,” Walker said.
