The rain didn’t start slow. Nope. It came down like someone flipped a switch, drenching me in seconds. I wiped my face and groaned, because, honestly, could this day get any worse?
Then, out of nowhere, I saw headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. A truck. A big, old pickup, the kind you see in movies where the driver’s either a helpful stranger or a serial killer. No in-between.
I squinted as it slowed down, my heart doing this weird mix of hope and paranoia. The window rolled down, and a voice called out, "You need a hand, bud?"
The guy behind the wheel looked like someone’s dad—graying beard, kind eyes, a flannel shirt that was probably older than me. He didn’t look like a murderer, but let’s be real, they never do.
"Yeah, uh… car’s dead," I shouted over the rain, because, of course, the storm had decided now was the time to be loud.
He nodded like he’d seen this a million times before. "Hop in. We’ll figure it out."
And that was the moment I had to decide—stand in the rain with a dead car or take a chance on the stranger in the truck.
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