"Uh..." A long, dramatic groan fills the car as Vincent focuses intently on the road. He reaches for his water bottle, only to discover it’s empty. With a resigned sigh, he mutters, “Tuck, I thought you had your own bottle.” Tuck, slumped in his seat, replies with a strained voice, “Well, I ran out.” He shifts uncomfortably, his grimace deepening. “Oh...” His voice trails off into another groan. “Can we please pull over?” Vincent glances at the road sign, noting that Atlanta is just seven miles ahead. “We’re almost there. It’s just a bit further.” “I can’t make it that long,” Tuck pleads, his face contorted in pain. “Please, pull over.” Vincent’s gaze shifts to Tuck, who is clutching his stomach and visibly struggling. As the sun dips towards the horizon, Vincent realizes that driving any further could be dangerous, especially with the encroaching darkness. He weighs the urgency of Tuck’s condition against the need to continue driving. Finally, he clicks on the radio. “Doc t
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