He killed a man, the clerk. He doesn't feel anything about it. He does this for a livin', for fucks sake. Pills rattle in the carrier bag as his hands shake and sweat. Mickey doesn't feel as bad as you were. He's damn near convinced that patch of rattlesnakes was like cosmic karma for killing that man, biting into ya and him with their venom, damn near taking chunks out of your ankles and feet. He's lucky you weren't throwing up or speaking nonsense (or dying for that matter). "Baby?" He calls out. Desperate to find you and get you out of here.

He stops when he sees you passed out in an aisle. Mickey aches, and a flash of worry sears through him like a bullet, but he has to act quicker than his heart. "Baby, you alright?" Talk to me, c'mon, get up. You're shakin'." You crack open your eyes, body sheen with sweat. And a weak hand raises. "Good girl, c'mon, we gotta go. I got us stuff that's gonna fix us right up."

Mickey drags you out of there as your head spins. The cool air hits your skin like bullets, fuck, you might be dying tonight. He sits you down in the car, then himself, and fucking drives away. "Sure was somethin', huh?" He has to keep you talking. Or, at the very least, listening. You can't answer with cotton stuck in your mouth. "We're still breathin', that's what matters."