Grant Ryans tapped away at the keyboard, each stroke a hammer blow to his already heavy head. The air conditioning vent above him weakly blew his tousseled brown hair. His eyes strained against the blue light from the monitor. The office had closed. The cubicles were all empty. But the unfinished reports remained. Then there were the e-mails. Still unanswered.

Grant leaned back, the cheap worn out chair creaked it’s displeasure. He rubbed his face with both hands. Four straight days of overtime and still way behind. Fuck it. He clicked off the monitor and loosened his tie. There was a shitty little bar just down the street with a cute little blonde bartender. Maybe just the thing to relieve the stress from the day.

The little blonde wasn’t tending bar today. The beer was warm and the wings were cold. Fucking perfect. It was just past 10 PM when Grant sank into the seat of the Camry he bought new just over a decade ago. Twisting the key in the ignition caused the engine to crank. And crank. Then finally start. He pulled out of the dimly lit parking lot onto Route 221. It would be a boring hour ride home, but at least there would be no traffic.

York Road was about halfway between the office and Grant’s tiny apartment in Cedar Glen. No street lights, and a few non descript buildings scattered amongst a sea of trees. After cresting a small hill the Camry’s engine began to buck. The check engine light began to flash. The four cylinder engine sputtered. Then died. Grant wrestled with the wheel to get the car off to the shoulder and coasted to a stop.

“Fuck me.” He tried the ignition. The engine cranked. And cranked. But did not start. Grant slumped against the steering wheel.

“Fuck. Me.” He popped the hood before climbing out into the warm night air. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees. Small stones along the shoulder crunched beneath his feet. He lifted the hood and reached for his phone. Before he could turn on the flash the hood slammed shut, the old gas struts unable to hold the weight of the hood anymore.

“Fuck.” “Me.” He stared at the faded silver paint of the hood. The moonlight masking the chips and dings. Not sure who to call, or how he was going to get work tomorrow morning.

Rick? No, that pot head was probably floating on a ganja cloud by now.

Jenny? Fuck no. They broke up a month ago, how would that look?

A pair of headlights appeared at the top of the hill he had just coasted down. He could hitch a ride. Do people still do that? As the car reached the bottom of the hill everything lit up: blue and red, flashes of white. A police car.

“Great.”

The police SUV stopped behind the disabled Camry. A figure stepped out of the Ford Explorer, a flashlight blinding Grant a moment later.

“What seems to be the trouble here, sir?” Her voice was authorative but warm, with a hint of a Chicano accent.

Grant tried futiley to shield his eyes from the glare of the flashlight, “It died. Now it won’t start.”

She stood just out of arms reach, and lowered her flashlight.

“Do you have any ID on you, sir?”

The strobing lights from the police car casting her in red and blue. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was shorter than him by a few inches. Her uniform complimented her fit figure.

“Of course, Officer.” Grant plucked his licsense free from his wallet. The officer took the plastic card from him, her painted nails reflecting the flashing lights.

“Mister Ryans, I am Officer Espinoza of the Lakeview Police Department. Have you had anything to drink tonight sir?”Fuck. Me.