Bab 40: Your mom is trash

A familiar roar of a motorbike echoed down the street. I looked up to see Tyron, my best friend, pulling up in front of the house. His tall frame and broad shoulders were a comforting sight amidst all the chaos. 

He pulled off his helmet, revealing his ever-confident smirk. "Your mom is trash," he said bluntly, his voice loud enough to make the neighbors peek out from behind their curtains.

A chuckle escaped my lips despite the situation. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Come on," he said, patting the back of his bike. "Let's get out of here."

I grabbed my suitcase and walked over to him, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. Tyron always had a way of making things seem less dire. He took the suitcase from me, strapped it to the back of the bike, and handed me a helmet.

"Here," he said, securing it on my head. "Safety first."

"Thanks," I said, appreciating the gesture. He always had my back.