Chapter 2

My hands were still shaking, but I forced them to grip the steering wheel again. The raw anger I felt was a hot, solid thing in my chest. I wanted to scream at them, to order them all out of my car right there on the side of the highway. But I didn't. I just breathed. In and out.

It was Kevin, one of the boys in the back, who finally broke the suffocating silence.

"Tiffany, just... stop," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "You grabbed the wheel. I saw you."

Tiffany whipped her head around to face him. "Shut up, Kevin! You don't know what you saw! She's a terrible driver!"

"I think we should all just calm down," Kevin said, looking at me with an expression that seemed genuinely apologetic. "We're sorry, ma'am. We just need to get to the exam."

I looked at him in the rearview mirror, then at the others. Mike was staring out the window, refusing to make eye contact. Jessica was whispering with Tiffany, their heads close together. They were a united front of blame.

"I'm sorry," Tiffany said suddenly, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I'm just so stressed about this test. It's for my future. I overreacted."

It was the most insincere apology I had ever heard. It was a strategic retreat, not an admission of guilt. But what could I do? Argue with a teenager on the side of a busy highway?

I put the car in drive and merged carefully back into traffic. The rest of the drive was silent, but it was a heavy, hostile silence. When we finally pulled up to the test center, they scrambled out of the car without a word of thanks.

As they walked away, I noticed it. A long, thin scratch running along the passenger side door, right where their backpacks and bags had scraped against it as they piled out in a hurry. It wasn't deep, but it was definitely new.

I got out and ran my finger along the jagged line in the paint. A fresh wave of anger washed over me. It was small, but it was the principle of the thing. The disrespect was staggering.

I saw Jessica look back, she saw me examining the scratch, and she quickly whispered something to Tiffany. Tiffany shot me a venomous look before pulling her friends toward the entrance of the building. They knew. And they didn't care.

I got back in my car, the unfairness of it all making me feel sick. I could go after them, demand they pay for the damage. But I could already imagine the scene, the denials, the accusations. They would twist it, make me out to be the crazy woman harassing poor students.

So I did nothing. I just sat there, staring at the school, and decided to let it go. It was easier. I typed out a quick, firm text to Tiffany's number.

"I have dropped you off for the exam. I will pick you up from this same spot at 1 PM. Do not be late. This is the only ride I will be providing."

I wanted to set a clear boundary. No more favors, no more flexibility. This was a one-time service, and it was almost over.

A few moments later, a text came back, not from Tiffany, but from Kevin.

"I'm really sorry about what happened. Tiffany can be a lot. For pickup, would it be possible to meet at the coffee shop across the street instead? It might be easier than fighting the traffic in front of the school."

It seemed like a reasonable request, a small olive branch. Maybe he was trying to make things right.

"Fine," I texted back. "The coffee shop at 1 PM."

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, the morning's events replaying in my mind. I pulled out my phone and called my husband, needing to hear a sane, supportive voice.

"You won't believe what just happened," I said, and I told him everything. The demand for an SUV, the insults, grabbing the steering wheel, the scratch on the car.

He listened patiently, his silence a comforting presence over the line.

"They sound like nightmares, Sarah," he said when I finished. "Absolute terrors."

"I want to just leave them here," I confessed. "I want to drive home and never think about them again."

"I know you do," he said, his voice calm and practical. "And you'd be completely justified. But listen to me. If you abandon them now, they'll have a story. They'll twist it and say you left them stranded. They'll report you to the coordinator, and it will become a 'he said, she said' mess. They already sound manipulative enough to do it."

He was right. I hated that he was right.

"So what do I do?" I asked, feeling defeated.

"You see it through," he said. "You pick them up, you drop them off, you fulfill your end of the bargain completely. Don't give them a single thing they can use against you. Be polite, be professional, and then you can wash your hands of them forever. Document everything, save the texts. Just get through the next few hours."

I took a deep breath. He was the practical one, the one who saw the angles. I was the one who ran on emotion, and right now my emotions were telling me to run away. But his logic was undeniable.

"Okay," I said, my voice small. "Okay, I'll finish the ride."

I would be a robot. A chauffeur. No emotion, just function. That's how I would survive the rest of the day.