No one ever thinks about car trouble until they’re stuck on the side of the road, staring at an engine that just won’t start. That’s exactly where I found myself last Tuesday, sweating in the afternoon sun, cursing my bad luck, and wondering why I hadn’t charged my phone the night before.
See, I drive this old, beat-up electric sedan—one of the early models that everyone thought was gonna change the world. Turns out, the only thing it changed was my patience level. The battery? Temperamental. The range? A joke. And the charging time? Let’s just say I could probably watch an entire season of my favorite show before it hit 80%.
That day, though, something felt different. It wasn’t just the usual slow death of the battery—I knew that dance too well. This was more like the car had just given up on life. I turned the key (yeah, it still had a key, go figure), and instead of the usual hum, I got silence. Not even a flicker on the dashboard. Dead as a rock.
So, there I was, standing next to my useless car, wishing I had listened to my buddy Mike when he said, "Man, just get a gas car. At least you can push it to a station." Mike always thought he was right about everything, and honestly, this time, he might’ve had a point.
I looked around, hoping some kind stranger might stop to help. But this was the middle of nowhere—a stretch of highway so empty it made me question every life decision that led me here. My last hope was the emergency roadside service I’d signed up for six months ago. I pulled out my phone, praying for a single bar of signal. Nope. Nothing. Not even a whisper of Wi-Fi.
“Great,” I muttered, kicking the tire like that was gonna fix anything.
Then, just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, I saw the sky darken. A storm was rolling in, thick clouds swallowing up the sun. Because, of course, why not? If the universe was trying to send me a message, it was loud and clear: You, my friend, are completely screwed.
And just like that, the first raindrop hit my forehead.
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