Driven Point of view
The truck's engine died with a final shuddering gasp, the silence that followed pressing in on Driven's ears like cotton. He didn't know what time it was—didn't much care, either. All he knew was that the last glass of beer had hit him like a freight train, leaving his thoughts scattered and his limbs heavy as lead.
His fingers fumbled with the keys, the metal scraping against the ignition as he finally managed to yank them free. The door handle felt slick beneath his palm, and when he shoved it open, the motion sent him tumbling sideways. One boot caught on the running board, saving him from eating dirt, but only barely.
Fresh air slapped him across the face, carrying the scent of cut grass and night-blooming jasmine from the garden beds.
For a moment, the world
