Tired eyes. He was wearing a faded delivery polo with a company logo peeling off the chest.
He didn’t reach for his license.
He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles went white. “Sir,” I said, sharper now, “license and registration.”
He swallowed, still staring straight ahead. “My girl…” he said.
I paused.
“What?”
“The hospital called.” His voice cracked on the last word. “Something went wrong.
They said I need to get there now.”
I said, “What hospital?”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
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