Mark stood in the porch light, his face twisted in rage, his white shirt already soaked through.

I threw the car into reverse and hit the gas.

The tires spun on the wet gravel before catching with a loud spray of mud.

I sped down the driveway and turned onto the main road toward Sacramento.

My hands shook on the steering wheel as I tried to keep the car steady on the slick asphalt.

The windshield wipers swiped back and forth, making a rhythmic, irritating squeak.

The digital clock on the dashboard read ten-twenty-two.

I had less than fifteen minutes to get to the old warehouse on 4th Street.

I tried Ana’s number again on the speakerphone, hoping she would pick up this time.

It rang three times, then went straight to voicemail.

“Ana, please call me,” I said after the beep, my voice cracking. “I’m on my way to the warehouse now.”

The highway was nearly empty, the headlights of occasional semi-trucks reflecting off the black road.

The rain seemed to get heavier, forming a gray wall of water that made it hard to see the exit signs.