Something wasn't right. Rosco couldn't exactly say what it was, but Emily was acting a little off. Like maybe she was drunk, or worse, on something.
"What is wrong?" It didn't help much that she kept calling him Gordo.
He kept telling her to be quiet if this was really going to happen. It took a good ten minutes to get her in the car. He was sure some one would have woke up. Her mother or her father, but they slept through everything.
"We can't go to Can-Can-Canada." Then it was this song she sang like a punk rocker, screaming in the car.
"OK, OK, Em, what have you done? What did you do?" Rosco found himself biting his bottom lip hesitating to even start the car.
"I don't have to talk to you. I don't have to see you." She looked out the window and spaced out.
"Fine." He was driving to the emergency room. It was just out of instinct, mostly. This was just freaky, he thought.
"No. No." Her words were fading, almost sleep. "I don't want to go Canada. They don't like us in Canada."
"All right, we'll go to Mexico."
He wanted to keep her talking. Some how.
"So we'll go to the beach? Right?"
"Beach!" Her body slightly lunged forward. "Where? Where's the beach?"
After a few more stop lights and a left turn or so they made it to the emergency room.
"OK, you need to stop and go to the restroom. There might not be one in Mexico."
"Mexico." She was grinning then, and he came around and opened the passenger door and lifted her over his shoulder.
He just hoped she wouldn't hate him tomorrow if they pumped her stomach, or put some sort of IV in to keep her from going under.