thank you for arriving this fast i said struggling to bring the strap of my purse into the back seat of the car. The driver murmured something. Sorry, I said, still adjusting. Shut the door, the man boomed. I pulled the strap completely into the car, finally. The door actually shut. I tried wiping down the seat with what remained dry from my jeans. The man didn't seem to notice that part. I could see his eyes through the rearview mirror looking at me. I had, after all, gotten the back seat of the car wet. Why did they even make these things out of leather anymore. The ride was going to be cold, and from what I remembered, it was going to be a long one. This weather, right? I said, trying to tone things down a bit. He ignored me, or probably couldn't hear me, from the rain drumming on the roof of the old black Camry. I looked down at the back of the seat and then down out the window. A sudden urge to step out into the rain again came over me. The locks clicked shut, and I looked at the driver, and then he looked at the mirror that looked at me. He said something, but I didn't hear him. I nodded, and he nodded. He looked away, and I looked toward the window again. What was supposed to be a simple ride is about to turn into the most haunting experience for one of them as the drive into a dark and rainy night begins. Just be ready for when it happens to you. My name is Edwin, and here is Gary Story. the rain was crying its way down the glass and disappearing into the wind behind us the window wouldn't close all the way so some of it was seeping into the car but i wouldn't worry about it anymore the blurry lights had long disappeared in the distance and now it was going to be a stretch of nothing but trees around us until we pulled up to my home or what remained of it it was just a house now not a home i pulled out my phone to check the time I still had about 40 minutes to make it. I was glad that the whole small talk part was thrown out the window from the start. I looked at the back of the driver's head. Bald, he was, with huge scars by his ears, or perhaps what remained of a tattoo that had faded a long time ago. His hand was held tightly in a fist, and it made me feel uncomfortable, angry. There was lots of stuff I grew up around, and fists were not uncommon around where I lived. They were the tools of husbands and bullies. Tools you get to use until you get something better. Something sharper. You learn to find the fists. And it's like this. The eyes give it away first. You know when someone's about to do something. You have a look down at the fists. And be ready for it. Either you run. Or you get punched. If you fight. Or you get punched too. Plus the girls from my town were evil.