The man who had been sitting on the motorcycle took off his helmet, revealing his face.
"Reg?..." Frida said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Reg dismounted the motorcycle and approached cautiously.
"Careful," she said softly as Laz walked toward her and she helped him to help Frida onto the motorcycle.
"Where are the rest of the guys?"
"They ran off," Laz replied.
"How?" Frida asked, her voice full of pain and confusion.
"No time to explain," Reg interjected. She turned to Laz, speaking in Spanish. "You should take her to the hospital."
Frida groaned in protest. "Don't take me to the hospital, please. I don't want to go," she pleaded, her body trembling as Laz carried her on his back.
"Got it," Laz replied, his voice steady.
He gently held her on the motorcycle and adjusted the helmet over her hair with care.
She winced. "Fuck, that hurts," she whispered.
