As Emily gazed down at Max, his head resting in her lap, the harsh overhead light from the cab accentuated the grime and blood smeared across his face. Despite the chaos, his features appeared serenely peaceful, as if lost in a fantastical dream. But the reality was a stark contrast. He had passed out cold, his body battered and vulnerable.
A ragged gash on his forehead wept crimson, staining her dress a dark red. His normally strong jaw was already swollen grotesquely on one side, the tell-tale sign of a nasty blow.
The cab driver's concerned voice, laced with a hint of suspicion, pierced the tense silence.
"Are you okay back there, ma'am? Looks like there's been some trouble."
Emily didn't respond immediately, her focus solely on Max's fragile state. The adrenaline that had fueled her during the encounter with the muggers was slowly ebbing away, replaced by a cold wave of worry.
She finally stirred, her voice firm but laced with a tremor, "No, we're alright. He just... got into a bit of a scrape."
"Alright, but I still don't have your address," the driver persisted, his forehead creased with worry.
"The gentleman seems to be bleeding quite a bit. Maybe I should take you both to the nearest hospital?"The suggestion sent a jolt of panic through Emily.
Hospitals meant questions, explanations, and potentially the involvement of the police. She couldn't risk that. Steeling her nerves, she replied, "No, that won't be necessary. He'll be fine."
"Okay, but you still haven't given me an address."
Her mind raced as she realized she had no idea where Max lived. Taking him back to her place was a risky proposition, but under the circumstances, it was the only option.
"Just take us to 973 Maxime Street Apt. 529." She mumbled the address to the driver, who shot her another curious glance before pulling away.
"Your place, huh?" the driver replied, his voice tinged with a skepticism she couldn't ignore.
Through the rearview mirror, she caught his gaze flicker between her and Max, a silent question hanging in the air. She forced a smile, hoping it appeared convincing. "Yeah, that's right. He lives nearby, but he's not in any state to walk right now."
The ride to her apartment was agonizingly slow. Every bump in the road, every jerk of the brakes, sent a fresh wave of worry through her.
She kept a watchful eye on Max, her fingers hovering near his wrist to check for a pulse. What was Max even doing at the club? And what would have happened if she hadn't shown up?
As they pulled up to her building, a wave of relief washed over her, quickly replaced by a new surge of panic. Even though the elevator ride to the fifth floor was usually a welcome escape from the stares and hushed whispers of her neighbors, today it felt like an eternity.
There was no way she could carry Max up the stairs, and even if she could, the thought of him bouncing off the steps was enough to make her wince.
Reaching her floor, she fumbled for her keys, her trembling fingers making the task a monumental struggle. Of course, this would be the time she'd forget them in her purse.
She hit the elevator button but nothing seemed to have happened. Why was it taking so long. With a muttered curse, she leaned Max against the door and sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time in a desperate race against time.
Reaching the mailbox downstairs, she used her fingerprint to unlock it, frantically searching for the spare key she always kept inside. Relief flooded her as her fingers finally brushed against the cold metal.
Back in the elevator, the wait seemed to stretch on forever. Each passing second felt like an hour as she replayed the night's events in her head, imagining the worst-case scenarios. Finally, the elevator doors pinged open, and she rushed out to Max's side. A quick check confirmed his pulse was still present, albeit weak.
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she unlocked the door and dragged him inside. Her apartment, usually a haven of comfort, now seemed strangely sterile and impersonal.
Maneuvering him onto the couch was a Herculean task, but fueled by adrenaline and a growing sense of determination, she managed to get him somewhat comfortable. The throbbing ache in her own arms was a dull throb compared to the worry gnawing at her.
She checked his temperature with the back of her hand. Now, of all times, she wished she had a thermometer.