The orange glow of the burning cab flickered against the darkening sky, casting long, dancing shadows across the cracked pavement of the highway.
The smell was a nauseating cocktail of scorched rubber, gasoline, and melting plastic.
"That bitch!" the driver spat, the words coming out as a jagged snarl.
He stood a few feet away from the wreckage, shielding his face from the intense heat as they watched the car burn furiously. "Fuck it!" He kicked a piece of debris that had landed near his boots, his frustration boiling over.
Alina sat on the rough dirt of the roadside, her knees pulled to her chest. Her heart was beating with a violent, rhythmic thud against her ribs—a physical reminder of the near-death experience she had just escaped by a matter of seconds. Her lungs felt tight, still processing the acrid smoke she'd inhaled, and her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The driver reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone, his thumb flying across the screen.
