How did it come to this?
Not long ago, I was flying down the highway—windows down, music up, the wind tugging at my sundress like it was trying to lift me out of my own life. Then the car coughed, sputtered, and died somewhere between nowhere and worse. Now I'm sitting on the shoulder of a cracked backroad, dried tears tight on my cheeks, and a stranger is crouched beside me.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
His voice is even. Not too soft, not too firm. Just... level.
I glance up, blinking hard. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Burnt orange hair, a little unruly at the edges like he forgot to brush it this morning—but it somehow works. A neatly kept beard softens his jaw, no razor-sharp lines, just natural, clean. His white shirt is plain, not wrinkled, not tucked in. Beige pants, slightly dusty like he's been driving for hours. No watch. No flashy sneakers or designer anything.
My eyes scan lower. Scuffed shoes, nothing sketchy. His hands hang relaxed at his sides. No clenched fists. No twitching fingers.
But I've met charming. I've met calm. That doesn't mean safe.
"I... think so," I say finally. It's the most honest answer I have.
He offers a bottle of water. I hesitate, then take it. The plastic is cold and wet, the cap stiff. I drink slowly, the first sip hitting my throat like it's never had water before.
He doesn't move closer. Just stays there, crouched, watching but not watching too hard.
Then he pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket—folded, white, with a single blue line stitched near the edge. Who even carries one of those?
I take it with a nod. Dab at my cheeks. Mascara's a lost cause.
"What happened?" he asks.
"My car died." I leave out the rest—the argument, the need to leave, the way I didn't look back.
He nods like that's enough.
"Where were you headed?"
"San Verde."
Another pause.
"I'm going that way too," he says. "If you want a ride."
Just like that. Like we're neighbours, and this is normal.
I stare at him.
A ride with a stranger? My brain spins through every headline, every horror story, every voice that ever warned me: Don't be stupid. Don't be alone. Don't get in.
But here I am. Alone. With no phone signal, no working car, and the sun dipping just a little lower in the sky.
He doesn't rush me. Just stays quiet.
I take another second to scan him—this time slower. Still no ring. No tattooed warning signs. No aggressive stance. His posture is loose, patient. His eyes aren't darting, and he hasn't looked at my legs once.
Still, I say, "I don't usually do this."
"I don't usually offer," he replies.
I narrow my eyes slightly. That line feels... practiced. Or maybe it's just what someone like me would say, and he's mirroring it. I can't tell. And that uncertainty sits right behind my ribs like a stone.
"...Okay," I whisper. It's not confidence. It's necessity.
He stands and offers a hand. I hesitate—because there's still time to change my mind—but I take it. His grip is firm, not controlling. He helps me up, then lets go immediately.
We walk toward his car together. A red Mustang, old but not falling apart. Sun-faded paint, scratches on the door, a little rust at the bumper. It's lived in, not cleaned for show.
I stall at the passenger door. My fingers hover over the handle.
This is the moment.
I could still say no. I could sit back down on the dirt and wait for a miracle. Or a worse stranger.
I open the door slowly and slide in, careful to keep my bag on my lap. The seat is cool against the back of my legs, and the air inside smells faintly of old leather and something citrusy—cleaner, maybe.
He gets in too. Doesn't look at me right away. Just starts the engine.
It hums to life without effort.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask me to relax. Doesn't ask anything, actually.
Good.
Still, I keep one hand near the door handle. Just in case.
I pull my legs up onto the seat, rest my heels against the edge, and wrap my arms around my knees. It's not comfortable, but it feels safer—more in control.
"Oh," he says, "never told you my name."
He glances over, briefly, before returning his eyes to the road.
"Jonathan. Jonathan Harrings."
I study him for a second. The name fits, somehow. Simple. Solid.
I lean back, cheek against the seat, knees still pulled in.
"Clara," I say. Then, quieter, "Clara Everly."
My voice sounds like I'm telling the truth for the first time today.
He nods once. "Nice to meet you, Clara."
I said yes.
I'm in the car.