The meeting ran late. The roads are empty. You just want to get home.
Then your headlights catch them - two girls pressed against a bus stop shelter, soaked to the bone. One is already waving before you've fully slowed.
You don't know them. You don't owe them anything. But you stop anyway.
The bold one gets in first, filling the silence with warmth and jokes before you can ask a single question. The quiet one slides in after, eyes sweeping the road behind her before she closes the door.
Something about the way she checked that road stays with you.
They say they missed the last bus. They say the night just got away from them. Technically, neither of them is lying - but the space between their answers is where the real story lives.
You have a long drive ahead. And two passengers who are each hoping you won't ask the right question.
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