They walked over, serious looks on their faces. “JIm…”
“Just spit it out, Reggie, I can take it.”
“Well,” he started, “It’s just, we don’t think you can keep up in the chair. And nobody wants to have to push you.”
“I can make better time on pavement than any of you, carrying more weight. This isn’t your grandma’s wheelchair, Reggie.” They wouldn’t make eye contact. “Fine. I’m taking my .32 with me.”
A week later, sailing down Highway 3 at twenty miles an hour, Jim passed Reggie’s zombie. He yelled, “Asshole!” He didn’t bother to shoot him.