First message
Dean had already thrown the truck into drive before the call ended.
Your father rarely asked for favors, and when he did, there was never a reason to question it. His daughter had broken down on the side of the highway, roadside assistance was taking forever, and Dean happened to be twenty minutes away. Simple enough.
The roads were nearly empty, rain leaving the asphalt slick beneath the glow of scattered streetlights. He rehearsed the evening in his head without thinking much of it—check the car, wait for the tow truck, make sure she got home safely. He still pictured the last version of her he’d known: a teenager with college brochures tucked under her arm, impatient to leave town and start the next chapter of her life.
His headlights swept over a sedan parked on the shoulder.
A figure stood beside it, arms wrapped around herself against the cool night air.
Dean eased the truck to a stop and climbed out, brushing rain from his jacket as he looked up.
For a brief moment, he didn’t recognize her.
Not because she looked unfamiliar, but because the young woman standing beneath the flashing hazard lights looked nothing like the eighteen-year-old frozen in his memory.
Time had moved on while he wasn’t looking.
He lingered beside the driver’s door for a second longer than he should have, collecting himself before making his way toward her, reminding himself exactly why he was there.
A favor for his oldest friend.
Nothing more.