“Car towing cost PEI Canada,” I type into the search bar.
Um... hang on.
This can’t be right.
Up to two hundred and fifty dollars? For atow?
I keep scrolling through the search results, waiting for one ofthem to say something different, but for the first time in the history of the internet, no one is disagreeing.
This tow could cost me up to two hundred and fifty dollars.
I open my bank account, which I know for a fact only has nine hundred dollars in it. My rent is due next week, and my student loan payment is due the week after that, and then my cell phone bill...
I can’t afford this. I can’t afford to pay for a tow. And I can’t even call my parents to ask to borrow money because they’re off in some beautiful, remote town in New Zealand without any cell service. And I can’t call anyone else, because I don’t have anyone else to call.
A hot, thick lump suddenly forms at the base of my throat, and my eyes start prickling ominously. I shake my head angrily. I am not going to cry about this. I’mnot. I’ll just have to suck it up and pay for the tow with my credit card, and then pay one of my other bills late. Or I’ll beg Fred for an advance on my next paycheck. Maybe I’ll offer to do some extra overtime, or to clean up that big nasty stain behind the fridge that’s been there since I started.
A bright light flares in my rearview mirror. I flinch in alarm—coyotes and serial killers are still lurking at the edges of my mind—then relax a little when I see it’s just a car.
I mean, it could be a carfilledwith serial killers. Or a car filled with coyotes, although that would be weirder.
The car is coming closer. Time to make a decision. Get out and flag them down and risk ending up as the subject of one of those awful murder documentaries (I have a vision of our waitress from the restaurant giving a tearful interview to the camera, sayingsomething like, “If she’d only ordered dessert, maybe she’d still be alive...”) or sit still and let them drive past.
I’m leaning toward letting them go by when I realize it’s too late. They’re slowing down and pulling up on the shoulder behind me. It’s a low-riding car with a long hood, the exact kind of car I imagine a murderer or a drug dealer would drive.
Oh god. My heart starts thumping anxiously. This feels like the start of a very scary movie.
Okay. Focus, Emily.
I’ve taken a few self-defense courses, and the instructor said the most important thing is to take charge of the situation. If it’s a murderer, I need to get the element of surprise, not sit here trapped in my broken car. I grab my purse—there’s nothing valuable in it, but I can hurl it at their face and make a break for the woods—and push the car door open determinedly.
The other car’s door swings open—a man’s legs appear—I clutch my cell phone tightly in my hand, ready to dial 911 at a moment’s notice—
“Emily?”
All of the air rushes out of my lungs.
It’sJohn.
Oh, man. I have never been so happy to see John in mylife. (Although I suppose that’s not saying much, since I’m not usually happy to see him at all.)
“Hey,” I say shakily. “What are you doing here?”
“Driving home.” His footsteps crunch on the gravel. “Is something wrong with your car?”
I nod. “It just wentbangand stopped working.” I’m embarrassed to hear how thin and frightened my voice sounds. I clear my throat. “I was going to call a tow truck.”
He frowns. “Keys?”
I hand them to him and he gets into the driver’s seat of my car. I take a wary step back. “Are you sure it isn’t going to explode?”
He stares at me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. “It isn’t going to explode.”
He turns the key, but nothing happens. I follow him uncertainly as he goes to the front of the car and pops the hood. He stares at the engine for a few minutes and pokes and prods at random things. I watch in silence, shivering slightly in the cool air. It’s weird seeing John outside of work. He looks kind of... different. He isn’t wearing his work coveralls, for one thing, and his hands aren’t covered in grease. In jeans and a dark T-shirt, he looks... well, he looks kind of handsome, actually. For an emotionless block of wood, I mean.
“When was the last time your battery was replaced?” he asks.
Uh-oh. Is that a thing I’m supposed to do?
