I'd clocked out of my regular job and decided to run DoorDash for a couple hours.

Nothing heroic, nothing dramatic, just chasing that little hit of, okay, I paid for groceries before I went home.

It was one of those nights where the roads feel tense for no reason.

People drive like they're late to their own lives. Headlights are too bright. Everyone's in a hurry.

And there's this low-grade aggression in the air like the city's holding its breath.

I just picked up an order, something greasy, the kind of food that makes your car smell

like it's been deep-fried for a week, and I was heading toward the customer's place.

The app had me on a main road that feeds into a bigger one, lots of lane changes, lots of

people accelerating like it's a competition.

I remember checking my mirrors.

I remember seeing headlights behind me, but nothing that screamed danger.

I signaled, started easing over, and that's when it happened.

This car appeared in my blind spot like it had been shot out of a cannon.

One second it wasn't there, the next second it was right alongside me, close enough that I saw

the driver's face in my peripheral. I jerked back into my lane. My stomach dropped in that

instant way it does when you realize you almost just ruined your life with one dumb move.

I mouthed sorry, even though he couldn't see it, even though that's not how physics works.

I lifted my hand in that universal little apology gesture.

He took it like I'd insulted his family.

He swerved in front of me so hard it looked intentional, then slammed his brakes, the nose of my car dipped.

The door-dash bag on the passenger seat slid forward and thumped against the

glove box. I felt my seatbelt bite into my shoulder. I backed off, heart hammering, trying to give him

...