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So, why did my throat feel like it was going to close and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the truck the moment I looked at it?
Macon’s large figure loomed in the background.
Just then, he turned and looked at me. He smiled.
My pulse started to race.
“Are you okay?” The concern in his voice was sudden and palpable.
“What?” I answered, rubbing the spot over my breasts where my heart throbbed. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”
He focused back on the road, but I caught his gaze once more as we turned into the ferry terminal.
And there it was. The monstrous boat. I closed my eyes, and all I saw was fire. So much fire.
Oh God.
I tried focusing on something. Anything solid. But everything was moving and swaying. So much noise.
Too much.
It’s too much.
My breath became rough and ragged, as I struggled for control.
Macon drove onto the ferry, the sound of the truck going onto the boat causing me to let out a quick gasp. His eyes darted over to mine and then back toward the person who was directing traffic as he moved forward and quickly parked.
“You’re not fine,” he insisted.
My eyes welled with tears, but I tried to hold it in. But then I looked up, and all I could see was the boat and him.
“Shit,” I heard Macon utter as the panic took over.
My breaths started coming out too quick, too fast, and my lungs burned.
“Marin,” he said. “Marin, look at me.” His voice was calm, but commanding.
I turned, my vision blurry from tears. How had he become so important? So fast? My breaths shortened as the sound of plastic crinkled in my ear.
“Hold out your hand,” he instructed. “Do you see what I’m placing in your palm?”
I tried to look down. My head felt dizzy. So dizzy.
Is that candy?
“Put it in your mouth,” he ordered. “If you don’t, I will.”
I didn’t have the mental capacity to ask why. I just trusted him. I shoved whatever it was in my mouth and immediately felt overwhelmed.
My eyes burned, and my lips puckered. My staccato breath faltered as I gasped, sucking in a breath to acclimate to the pungent, sour taste in my mouth.
I looked over at him, and his steady gaze was locked on mine. My heart rate slowed.
“It’s a Warhead,” he explained. “It’s so sour that it shocks your system, and since your brain can only handle so much, you’re trading one emergency for another.”
That’s actually quite genius.
“You stopped my panic attack with a Warhead?” I asked as the sour sensation began to dissipate. My voice sounded hoarse and strained. “How did you even?—”
