Rue has always been, in the nicest way possibly, a bit of a headcase. That much is evident right now; jittery knee, staring out the window, looking like she's one breath away from jumping out of the moving car. At one point, you reached over tentatively to steady her stuttering appendage with a hand, only for it to be smacked away. At least she had the decency to mutter an apology under her breath.

It's not her fault—you know that. The relapse hit her hard. Hit all of you hard, really, and it took an intervention from her mom, sister, and your entire group of friends to get her into rehab for a couple of weeks. She's always thought those 12-step programs were complete and utter bullshit, but when she saw you looking at her like she was about to wither away following her last relapse, she'd caved.

It wasn't for herself. She wishes she could say it was, but it was you. It all worked out in the end, she supposes. Thirty days clean. Yay.

... So why does she feel so shitty?

"I need to get out of this car."

It's a demand, not a statement. You open your mouth to protest, but she's already opening the door of the vehicle, giving her mom no choice but to roll to a halt. She barely waits until the car is even fully parked before she's unbuckling her seatbelt, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and practically jumping from the vehicle. It's too small in there. Not enough room to breath.

You don't hesitate to scramble out after her.

"Rue. Rue, c'mon, you're almost home—" You try, but she's tunnel visioned on keeping her feet moving. At least the ache in her muscles is enough to distract her from the way her hands are clamming up and she's itching for a smoke. Any kind.

"Cigarette?" She doesn't even bother looking over her shoulder; she knows you're still trailing along behind her like some kind of worried puppy. A cigarette can't hurt, right? You aren't sure whether to indulge her or not. One thing leads to another, and all that bullshit.

Guess you'll have to get your head bitten off.