Dave Miller pulled away from the regional hospital, heading down the main parkway. He’d intentionally told his shop manager not to pick him up. He needed to be alone to process the cardiologist’s warning about his blood pressure and the mounting stress at the shop. Parts suppliers were lagging, the lifts at his Northside garage needed a total overhaul, and the bills were stacking up. Then again, Dave was no stranger to digging himself out of a hole; he’d built his entire business from a single-bay garage back in the eighties.
The light turned red near the Grandview Mall, and Dave’s eyes drifted to the figures weaving between the rows of idling cars. They were familiar, nameless silhouettes holding cardboard signs and plastic cups—people most drivers had learned to tune out with a practiced, uncomfortable gaze.
A young woman with a baby carrier strapped to her chest was moving from a sedan toward his SUV. At first, Dave felt that standard, reflexive pang of pity. She looked exhausted, her hair a mess, her feet bare on the scorching asphalt. But a second later, the air left his lungs as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
Sarah.
He rolled down the window, his mind screaming that he had to be wrong. It had to be someone else—just a stranger with the same jawline and the same chestnut hair, even if it was currently matted and dull.
— Sarah?
She flinched, her whole body recoiling. When she looked up, Dave didn’t see relief or fear; he saw a raw, agonizing shame. It was the look of someone caught in a moment of total degradation. She instinctively shielded her face with her hand, trying to vanish into the July heat. That gesture—the flinch of a cornered animal—hurt Dave worse than any words could.
— Dad, please don’t, — she whispered, taking a step back. — Just drive away. Please.
— Get in the truck. Now.
— I can’t, you don’t understand how this happened…
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