The black sedan was always waiting at the same spot after my last class.

My father’s company assigned the driver when I started university. His name was Harlan. Mid-forties. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Always in a dark suit with the sleeves rolled once by the time he picked me up. He rarely spoke beyond “Good afternoon, Miss Caldera” and “We’re here.” Most days I sat in the back seat, scrolled my phone, and pretended the silence wasn’t heavy.

That Thursday the silence broke.

I slid into the back seat as usual. Harlan closed the door, walked around, and got behind the wheel. The locks clicked. Instead of pulling into traffic he stayed...