The Man Behind the Wheel

"Please. Just take me home."

I shut the car door, dropped my bag between my aching feet, and closed my eyes. For the first time in fourteen hours, nobody needed anything from me.

The seat was warm. The leather smelled faintly of cedar. Somewhere near the dashboard, a phone vibrated and was silenced.

We didn't move.

"If you're waiting for me to make conversation," I murmured, "you'll have to reschedule. I used up my last functioning brain cell around nine."

"That would explain a few things."

The voice was low, amused, and much too close. I opened my eyes.

A man watched me through the rearview mirror. Dark hair, an unsmiling mouth, a jaw that belonged in an expensive watch advertisement. His black suit fitted shoulders broad enough to make the driver's seat look inconvenient.

No dashboard mount. No rideshare sticker. No friendly photograph of a man named Kevin.

"You're not Kevin."

"No."

"Please tell me you're Kevin's extremely overdressed brother."

His mouth moved at one corner.

"You're in the wrong car."

I sat up so fast my knee struck the seat. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. I thought—there was a black sedan, and the app said—"

I pulled out my phone. Four percent became a spinning circle. Then the screen went black.

For a second, I simply stared at it.

"Of course," I said. "Why would this evening develop any standards now?"

He reached toward the center console.

My hand tightened around the door handle before I could stop it.

He noticed. His hand went still.

"A charger," he said. "That's all I'm reaching for."

Heat climbed my face. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for being careful."

He lifted the cable slowly and held it over his shoulder. I took it, careful not to touch his fingers, which was ridiculous considering I had just helped myself to his back seat.

"You can wait until it restarts," he said.

Outside, sleet blew sideways across the hospital entrance. The glass doors opened, releasing a man in a thin jacket who immediately turned around and went back inside.

I plugged in the phone.

"Thank you. I'll be out of your way in a minute."

He glanced at my reflection. "Hospital?"

I looked down at the blue scrubs visible beneath my open coat. "Either that, or I've made some unusual fashion choices."

This time, he almost smiled.

"Long shift?"

"Fourteen hours. Two people tried very hard to die. One of them called me a vicious woman because I wouldn't let him smoke next to his oxygen."

"Did he survive?"

"Long enough to complain about me to the next nurse."

The man's quiet laugh did something unexpected to my stomach.

I looked away. At twenty-nine, I knew exhaustion could make terrible ideas seem appealing. Gas-station sushi. Cutting my own bangs. A beautiful stranger whose watch probably cost more than my car.

His phone vibrated again. He glanced at the screen and declined the call.

"You don't have to ignore that because of me."

"It can wait."

I didn't know why that nearly undid me. All evening, everything had been urgent. Every alarm, every question, every family member catching my sleeve. Even sitting down had felt like taking something from somebody else.

Now a stranger was letting his phone ring because mine was dead.

I swallowed and concentrated on the little battery symbol.

"Rougher than the cigarette complaint?" he asked.

I looked up.

He wasn't staring. His eyes were on the sleet sliding down the windshield.

"A woman my age asked whether she was dying," I said. "I couldn't promise her she wasn't."

He waited.

"She's still here. That's what I keep trying to remember."

"Then remember that tonight," he said. "The rest can wait until you've slept."

There was no grand reassurance in it. No insistence that everything happened for a reason. I liked him a little for that.

My phone finally lit up. Three messages from Kevin appeared.

South entrance. I'm by the pharmacy.

"I'm at the wrong entrance as well," I announced. "I've achieved a level of incompetence that feels almost professional."

"You spent fourteen hours doing your job. You're allowed to be tired afterward."

I gathered the cable. "Apparently I'm also allowed to commit accidental trespassing."

"I'd prefer you didn't make a habit of it."

I handed him the charger. Our fingers brushed, briefly. Warm skin. A small pale scar crossing one knuckle.

"Thank you for not throwing me out."

"Wait under the awning until your driver arrives. Check the plate."

"I will."

He looked at me in the mirror once more, as if deciding whether to say something else.

Then he nodded. "Good night."

I climbed out, dragging my bag after me. Before I had taken three steps, a large man in a dark overcoat approached the sedan.

"Mr. Moretti, Caruso's people are still waiting."

The stranger lowered his window. He didn't raise his voice.

"Then they'll be good at it by the time I arrive."

The man immediately stepped back.

I hurried around the building and checked Kevin's plate twice.

He glanced at me as I buckled in. "You look frozen."

"I got into the wrong car. Some man named Moretti let me charge my phone."

Kevin's eyes snapped to the mirror.

"Dark hair? Black Mercedes?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

He pulled away from the curb before answering.

"Everybody around here knows Dominic Moretti."

Something in his tone chilled me more effectively than the weather.

"Should I be embarrassed or worried?"

"You got out," he said. "I'd leave it at that."

At home, I locked my apartment door and reached into my bag for my scarf.

It wasn't there.

I checked again, then remembered unwinding it in that warm back seat.

Somewhere in Chicago, a man who made other men lower their voices had my grandmother's green scarf.

And I hadn't even asked his name.