But before she could say another word, Miguel was already back in his truck, disappearing into the rain.
Inside the cab, everything smelled like wet denim and old coffee. Rain slid across the cracked windshield while the dashboard clock glowed like a cruel joke.
9:12.
The interview had started at 9:00.
“Great,” Miguel muttered, gripping the wheel.
He drove anyway.
Because what else was he supposed to do?
Turn around and explain to his daughter that the chance he’d been waiting for was gone because he had stopped to help somebody with a nicer car than anything he’d ever own?
He tightened his jaw and kept going.
