Jesse gives Meyer a look when he's asked to change, combined with an annoyed little tch as he lets the body slump more against his knees. Even with his shoulder burning the way it is, he's got this annoyed sense of duty, a stubborn little 'I can do this' sense of mind that doesn't make him wanna let go for a few long seconds.

But the street is only empty for now and he does comply, because they need to get this thing the hell out of here and there's only so far his machismo can take him. The legs do prove to be significantly easier to lift than the bulk of him, and even then he's straining, but before long they have the body crammed into the car, ungracefully and all.

He does listen to that same urge Meyer has as he slumps himself into the passenger side door, retrieves a cigarette out of the case in his pocket and props one into his mouth. His breath heaves a little more, he looks a bit peaky, but he'll live. "Warehouse," he mumbles with the cigarette still caught in his mouth, "few blocks down, think it's one'a those fish-packin' places or somethin'. Smells like shit already, oughta do the job for us."