Page 103 of I’m The Worst

The snow starts coming down harder, thick enough to hide the road again. Cars move slow, tires slipping, headlights cutting through it.

I’m caught off guard when the truck pulls into a parking spot near a massive shopping complex. Reaching under the seat, he slides out a heavy gun. He checks it fast, clips it to his side, then starts shoving knives into places—one in his boot and another into the inside of his jacket.

He looks at me. “Put your hood up.”

I want to ask him who that woman was. But the way his hands keep flexing—like he’s trying not to break something—keeps my mouth shut.

The cold hits hard, biting at my face as I hurry to keep up with him when we get out, boots crunching through fresh snow. I pull my coat tighter, staying close.

As soon as we step inside, warmth washes over me. The store is packed—people with carts, kids running around. Wolff doesn’t slow, his hand closing around my arm, pulling me through the crowd. We stop near the clothing and food.

“Start grabbing shit.”

“What?”

His eyes flick around the store, not landing on anything for long. “Grab clothes. Food. Whatever the fuck you need.”

I open my mouth to ask, How long exactly? What kind of weather? How cold? But I stop myself. What’s the point?

He never tells me anything anyway.

I frown and move toward the nearest rack, grabbing a jacket and shoving it into the cart. Then I grab jeans, sweaters, underwear, socks—anything that seems useful. Wolff grabs things from a display case.

Moving to the food aisles, I stare at rows of cans and packaging I can’t read.

Behind me, the cart jerks as Wolff starts throwing things into it without a word. The longer the silence continues, the more it grates my nerves. I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of being dragged around like luggage. Tired of him shutting down every single time I try to understand what the hell is happening.

“Wolff, can you just tell me⁠—”

“Stop fucking talking.”

He steps beside me, grabbing more cans, dropping them into the cart hard enough to make it rattle.

I stare at him, irritation flaring hot in my chest.

“Why are you so pissed? What happened back there? Who was that woman?”

Nothing. Of course nothing.

The silence only makes me angrier.

“Why did she call you Dylan?”

His hand tightens on the cart handle.

“Stop.”

But I’m done stopping. I’m exhausted and pissed. I’m tired of being left in the dark.

“Was that, like, another one of your names? Like K9, or⁠—”

He shoves the cart forward.

“Are you mad because I touched you? I didn’t even realize⁠—”

He turns on me so fast, I don’t have time to move, stumbling back.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Or I’ll shut you up.”