The silence inside the car was immediate and heavy.

I started the engine and backed out of the space.

As I drove down the exit ramp, a figure stepped out from behind a concrete pillar near the security gate.

I tapped the brakes, my tires squealing slightly on the slick concrete.

It was Lila.

She had run down the emergency stairs to beat me to the exit.

Her hair was disheveled, and she had left her jacket inside.

She stood directly in the path of my car, her arms crossed over her chest.

I stared at her through the windshield.

She did not look angry; she looked desperate.

She walked around to the driver’s side and tapped on my window.

I rolled the window down two inches.

The cold air of the parking garage rushed into the warm cabin of the car.

It smelled of damp concrete, gasoline, and Lila’s floral perfume.

“Get out of the way, Lila,” I said.

My voice was flat, devoid of the anger she probably expected.

She gripped the top of the glass with her fingers.