Andrew's little sedan, which technically belongs to the pack but no one seems to care he's driving it around these days, lurches forward with a miniature roar as I slam my foot down on the accelerator, hoping and praying I don't hit Andrew if he falls off the hood.
I don't, in fact, hit Andrew, though I do hit someone.
My forehead bangs against the steering wheel as I brake for a second without thinking. Then I hear what I think is Andrew screaming at me to go, and my foot returns to the accelerator with a hard stomp. The sedan bumps over something and shoots forward, taking me away from the fight with haste.
My other hand jerks at the seatbelt until I'm safely buckled in and (hopefully) safe from another forehead-steering wheel slam if I run into anything else.
Not that I'm planning to, exactly, but—
