The rain hadn’t let up for hours. The kind of rain that slapped the pavement sideways and soaked your socks even under boots. Zara sat on the hood of the busted Civic, smoking a bent cigarette she found in the glove box. The engine was shot. Her phone was dead. And of course, her jacket was thin as hell because she didn’t think today would be this kind of day.

“Can I sit?”

The voice came from be...