It was nearly two in the morning when the road betrayed us.
My wife and I were driving home from a friend’s party, the kind that stretches too late because no one wants the night to end. The highway was almost completely empty, a thin ribbon of asphalt cutting through darkness and open fields. There were no streetlights, no houses—just the hum of the engine and the sound of us talking softly, already half-asleep.
Then the car coughed.
Once. Twice.
And died.
I eased it to the side of the road, my heart sinking as silence rushed in. I tried the ignition again, then again. Nothing. The dashboard lights flickered weakly and went out. This was before mobile phones, before GPS, before the idea that help was always a tap away. We were simply… stranded.
We sat there in the dark, windows cracked, listening to the wind brush through the grass. My wife wrapped her coat tighter around herself. I remember thinking how small we felt—two people in a broken car, miles from anywhere, with no idea how long we’d be waiting.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
Continued on next page:
