Apathy

By Jennifer Nguyen

The man watches as splatters of rain slam onto his windshield. He blinks, glasses sitting tiredly on the bridge of his nose, and reaches a coat-covered arm to adjust the rear-view mirror. The flash of passing cars blinds him momentarily. Sniffing, he tugs on the steering wheel and glances at the bulky bag under the passenger seat to his side, fingers twitching. He reaches over and pats the bag, taming the wild curls on the girl’s head down.

A brown iris stares back at him. He sighs and pushes the bag further into the corner, eyes flicking back to the road.