push his luck. Instead he wondered why she’d waited so long to text him. He’d asked her more than once to text him right away. And she had promised, playfully offering to pinky-swear if he doubted her.
The phone chimed again.
“Can’t wait!”
Frowning, Elijah jabbed his finger at the radio to switch stations.
Another text chime:
“Sorry!”
Strangely, the new station was also playing “Mother’s Little Helper.” Hell of a coincidence. He was used to hopping between stations and hearing the same irritating commercial, those things were impossible to avoid, but what were the odds of both stations playing this old song?
He was mentally rambling, a familiar habit when his anxiety climbed, which happened when he felt himself losing control of a situation. Nothing he peddled in his samples case would treat that condition.
Chime:
“Malik’s here.”
Fortunately, Elijah was nearing the end of the bottleneck. Ahead, he saw cars accelerating, the mass of metal expanding and flowing away from him at unsafe speeds, many drivers determined to make up for lost time. Today of all days, he could sympathize. As the PT Cruiser sped away from him, he pressed down on the gas.
Supposedly, Brianna’s brother was the backup plan, in case she couldn’t reach Elijah. She hadn’t wasted any time, though. She must have called Malik first, before bothering to text her husband. Maybe she thought Elijah would find his way home in time, but planned all along to have Malik take her. To keep her own anxiety under control. To be fair, her needs came first and his being there for the main event was more important than being the chauffeur.
Feeling control coming back into his grasp, he punched in a third radio station.
“Seriously…?”
Once again “Mother’s Little Helper” played on his car speakers. An earlier part of the song, enough of a change to assure him the programmed radio buttons still worked. But the same song on three stations at once? He shook his head.
Chime:
“Meet us at LMC! If you can!?!”
Elijah decided to let the damn song play and risked a very quick text reply, a mere three letters,
“OMW,”
which automatically expanded to
“On my way!”
After allowing himself this small infraction of his self-imposed rules, he leaned back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. Not that he’d been too worried about risking an accident for three letters’ worth of distraction, but simply to calm his own nerves. He still had quite a drive left, plenty of time to consider their life going forward. Normally, he’d pull over, review his schedule and make the few calls necessary to juggle the last few appointments of the day, but that could wait. And Brianna couldn’t.
His nostrils flared at the strong scent of cinnamon. Like some kind of weird, reverse memory association. He’d want to remember this moment, and now he would associate it with one of his favorite scents. Was his brain playing some weird trick on him? The symptom of a stroke?
Sudden movement reflected in the rearview mirror. His gaze darted there, expecting to see the approaching bumper of a car or truck whose driver had overestimated Elijah’s speed. Instead, he saw something dark and wretched rise into view, eyes black as coal under a foul mat of straggly hair. For a brief moment, he believed a homeless person had stowed away in the backseat of his car and had somehow gone undetected while he made his rounds.
Unspoken outrage on the tip of his tongue, he whipped his head around to face the intruder and before the grotesque face could come into focus, clawed hands flashed in front of his face, first blocking his vision then destroying it. Searing pain ripped through the flesh around his eyes—then utter darkness.
Instinctively, his hands flew from the steering wheel to his savaged face, and he felt the Audi swerve out of control, heard the protracted warning blare of a tractor-trailer’s horn and felt, for the briefest moment, a
The phone chimed again.
“Can’t wait!”
Frowning, Elijah jabbed his finger at the radio to switch stations.
Another text chime:
“Sorry!”
Strangely, the new station was also playing “Mother’s Little Helper.” Hell of a coincidence. He was used to hopping between stations and hearing the same irritating commercial, those things were impossible to avoid, but what were the odds of both stations playing this old song?
He was mentally rambling, a familiar habit when his anxiety climbed, which happened when he felt himself losing control of a situation. Nothing he peddled in his samples case would treat that condition.
Chime:
“Malik’s here.”
Fortunately, Elijah was nearing the end of the bottleneck. Ahead, he saw cars accelerating, the mass of metal expanding and flowing away from him at unsafe speeds, many drivers determined to make up for lost time. Today of all days, he could sympathize. As the PT Cruiser sped away from him, he pressed down on the gas.
Supposedly, Brianna’s brother was the backup plan, in case she couldn’t reach Elijah. She hadn’t wasted any time, though. She must have called Malik first, before bothering to text her husband. Maybe she thought Elijah would find his way home in time, but planned all along to have Malik take her. To keep her own anxiety under control. To be fair, her needs came first and his being there for the main event was more important than being the chauffeur.
Feeling control coming back into his grasp, he punched in a third radio station.
“Seriously…?”
Once again “Mother’s Little Helper” played on his car speakers. An earlier part of the song, enough of a change to assure him the programmed radio buttons still worked. But the same song on three stations at once? He shook his head.
Chime:
“Meet us at LMC! If you can!?!”
Elijah decided to let the damn song play and risked a very quick text reply, a mere three letters,
“OMW,”
which automatically expanded to
“On my way!”
After allowing himself this small infraction of his self-imposed rules, he leaned back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. Not that he’d been too worried about risking an accident for three letters’ worth of distraction, but simply to calm his own nerves. He still had quite a drive left, plenty of time to consider their life going forward. Normally, he’d pull over, review his schedule and make the few calls necessary to juggle the last few appointments of the day, but that could wait. And Brianna couldn’t.
His nostrils flared at the strong scent of cinnamon. Like some kind of weird, reverse memory association. He’d want to remember this moment, and now he would associate it with one of his favorite scents. Was his brain playing some weird trick on him? The symptom of a stroke?
Sudden movement reflected in the rearview mirror. His gaze darted there, expecting to see the approaching bumper of a car or truck whose driver had overestimated Elijah’s speed. Instead, he saw something dark and wretched rise into view, eyes black as coal under a foul mat of straggly hair. For a brief moment, he believed a homeless person had stowed away in the backseat of his car and had somehow gone undetected while he made his rounds.
Unspoken outrage on the tip of his tongue, he whipped his head around to face the intruder and before the grotesque face could come into focus, clawed hands flashed in front of his face, first blocking his vision then destroying it. Searing pain ripped through the flesh around his eyes—then utter darkness.
Instinctively, his hands flew from the steering wheel to his savaged face, and he felt the Audi swerve out of control, heard the protracted warning blare of a tractor-trailer’s horn and felt, for the briefest moment, a
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