It takes me ten minutes to get home. I’ve waited around long enough that dinner should be on the table for me, not yet cold or congealing in its juices.
I ease slowly into drive, carefully selecting the few songs I’ll be able to fit in.
A woman runs up beside my car; she tries the handle, but it’s locked. She screams. Long, howling anguish. Whether she actually says anything I don’t know; I can’t hear her. She runs up the road, tearing at her auburn hair.
Surely one of those other cars will stop for her; I have dinner waiting.