Rumors on New Year's Eve

On the morning of New Year's Eve, before dawn had fully broken, Frankie and I got into the car to return to my hometown. There weren't many cars on the highway; a thin layer of frost coated the road, and a light mist fogged the windows. Frankie Carr gripped the steering wheel, his fingers tapping occasionally on the leather seat, humming an off-key tune. I leaned against the front passenger seat, watching the trees blur rapidly outside the window, my heart full of anticipation for the family reunion dinner. Suddenly, a black sedan suddenly flicked on its turn signal from the right lane, trying to cut into the line ahead of us. Frankie's singing stopped abruptly. He slammed on the brakes and honked the horn loudly until it reverberated through everything. "Do you even know how to drive?" Frankie Carr leaned out and shouted at the unlicensed driver, his face full of impatience. The unlicensed driver quickly stopped, pushed open the door, and ran over, his eyes red and his forehead dripping with sweat. "Please, just let me go ahead first." The unlicensed driver pressed his hands together, his voice trembling with tears. "My wife is about to give birth; I have to get to the hospital ahead quickly." My heart tightened. Instinctively, I tugged on Frankie's arm, trying to make him show some mercy. But Frankie Carr shrugged off my hand and sneered, "Your wife's about to give birth? Sounds like you're just desperate to cut in line." The unlicensed driver anxiously stomped his feet, tears nearly streaming down: "It's true, look—I still have the maternity bag in my car. If this delay continues, my wife and child will be in danger." "Don't try that with me." Frankie Carr leaned against the car door, his arms crossed over his chest. "Everyone's eager to get home for the New Year. Why should it be you? If you want to cut in line, wait your turn. Don't act so pitiful here." I looked at Frankie Carr's cold expression and suddenly felt like he was a stranger to me.