Page 17 of UNAwere

‘I need fresh air.’

‘The air coming through the vents is fresh,’ I argue.

‘It’s not. It’s recycled.’

‘No, you can flip the switch, see?’ I lean over to the dashboard and flip the control to the vents, so they’re no longer on recycle.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s not enough.’

I groan. ‘I’m more than happy to sit here in silence if you just roll up the window.’

‘You asked to be driven, Miss Palmer,’ he says. ‘These are the terms of having me drive you.’

‘Look, I know I’ve set things back by refusing to go on a plane. I get it, I’m terrible, but this isn’t…’ I grit my teeth, unable to put into words how overstimulated I am.

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

I remember looking at my mother’s face. The confusion on it.

Weres don’t get disorders like that.

They do, the doctor had corrected. Were brains are built very similarly to human brains. They’re able to get tumours, they experience the same emotions, they have the same hormonal responses. And they can absolutely have neurodivergence.

I don’t think my parents had looked too favourably on my diagnosis. Not because it had disgusted them, but because they’d finally realised how set back I’d been. In school. In social situations. Life in general.

The sound of the window going up snaps me from the memory, and I blink, glancing at Briggs. He doesn’t look at me, but the roaring wind has stopped, and I lower my hands from my ears, not noticing I’d even put them there.

‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice small.

He turns the dial up on the air conditioner, making it come through faster. It’s loud, but it’s so much better than the wind.

‘I didn’t realise it affected you like that.’ His voice is the softest I’ve heard it.

‘It’s just… too much.’

‘I apologise.’ He clears his throat. ‘I won’t lower it again.’

His hands are tight on the wheel, and they don’t let up. Not even when I start talking again. Or when I offer to get fried chicken from the Colonel Rooster we go past, instead of the place he’s already pre-approved.

‘I’ll even pay!’ I bargain.

He shakes his head. ‘We’re going to this truck stop.’

Fried chicken. I haven’t had it in so long, and I’m craving it desperately.

‘Wings,’ I moan. ‘Spicy breaded chicken breast. Chicken burgers.’ I bite my lip. ‘Fries. And gravy!’

‘We’re going to the truck stop,’ he grits out.

‘Don’t you just love fried chicken, though? Nuggets? Saucy wings? What’s your favourite kind?’

‘I don’t have a favourite. Chicken is chicken.’

‘Okay, I could let the anti-nut thing pass. But chicken is chicken? Are you serious?’ I turn in my seat, loosening the seatbelt so I can regard him properly.

He refuses to look at me, keeping his eyes ahead.

‘So, you’re telling me an unseasoned, boiled chicken breast is on the same tier as a delicious, juicy, deep-fried chicken wing?’ I scoff. ‘You’re crazy.’