He was holding up his phone, snapping a photo of the Mercedes emblem on the steering wheel. A second later, he posted it to social media.
New ride, smooth handling.
I spoke up immediately.
"Lambert, don't let him drive! He doesn't have a license—this is dangerous!"
Bernice exploded.
"What's that supposed to mean? You just look down on Morton, is that it? Who says he doesn't have a license?"
Morton thumped his chest with one hand.
"Relax. Got my license ages ago. I'm a steady driver."
My heart shot into my throat. I lunged for the door handle.
Locked. Morton floored the gas and the car lurched forward.
I knew that saying anything else would only provoke him, so I pressed my lips shut.
Please. Please let nothing happen.
Morton was clearly a novice, but his driving habits were beyond reckless.
He slammed the brakes constantly, cut across lanes on a whim, steered with one hand, and hummed along to some song the entire time.
Within minutes, he nearly sideswiped a freight truck because he'd changed lanes without signaling.
A few minutes after that, he looked down at his phone and almost rear-ended the sedan ahead of us.
Lambert screamed "BRAKE!" and Morton jerked, stomping on the pedal in a panic.