Two Miles Short
Talia Bloom checked the dashboard clock for the fourth time in a minute, as if glaring at it might slow the numbers down. 8:41. The interview was at nine, two miles up the highway, and her seven-year-old was strapped in the back seat with a granola bar in one fist and his stuffed rabbit in the other.
"Almost there, buddy," she said, more to herself than to Wyatt.
The car answered her with a shudder, a cough, and silence. The steering went heavy under her hands as the sedan rolled onto the gravel shoulder and stopped dead, hazards ticking like a metronome counting down her chances.
"Mommy?" Wyatt's voice was small.
"It's okay. Just car stuff." She turned the key. Nothing. Turned it again. Nothing. She pressed her forehead to the wheel for exactly two seconds — that was all she allowed herself — then sat up and grabbed her phone.
No tow service was going to reach her in eighteen minutes. No cab either, not out here between exits, not on the eleven dollars in her checking account. She scrolled through her contacts with a kind of desperate speed, looking for a name that could fix an engine for free, knowing there wasn't one.
Her mother's voice mail picked up. "Mom, it's me, the car died, I don't know what to — " She glanced at the mirror and stopped talking.
Headlights, closing fast, then slowing. A black pickup truck eased onto the shoulder behind her, engine still running, and a man stepped out in a suit that had no business being anywhere near a roadside breakdown. He didn't hurry. He didn't wave. He just looked at her car the way a doctor looks at a patient's chart before saying anything at all.
"Who's that?" Wyatt whispered.
Talia's phone chose that exact moment to flash a battery warning and go black in her hand, cutting off her mother's voicemail mid-beep, cutting off any way to call for help that wasn't the stranger now crossing the gravel toward her window.