Surrogate to the Alpha

Chapter Eight

Josephine

By the time my shift ended, my feet were killing me, my back ached, and I smelled like grease and desperation. The kind of smell that clung to your soul, not just your clothes. The kind of smell that made people on the bus subtly lean away from you and pretend it was because they needed more elbow room. But I couldn't go home. I had a car to take out of the impound and I didn't have much time before it closed for the day and another day's fees would pile on top.

Because of course the universe looked at my life and said,

“You know what she needs? A ticking clock and financial ruin.”

It never missed an opportunity to kick me while I was already face‑down on the pavement. If there was a cosmic suggestion box, I was convinced someone had written “ruin her” in permanent marker.

I clocked out, shoved my tips into my pocket (all seven pounds of them), and limped toward the bus stop like a Victorian orphan with rickets.

Honestly, if someone had tossed a coin at my feet, I probably would’ve curtsied. My knees were already halfway bent from exhaustion anyway.

The impound was on the edge of the city — the kind of place where dreams went to die and cars went to be judged.

The gate was a giant metal fence topped with barbed wire, because apparently my 2004 Nissan Almera was a high‑value target. The whole place looked like a dystopian zoo enclosure for vehicles that had committed crimes.

I guess mine kind of did.

The shiny red sports car I hit came to the forefront of my mind and I winced. I decided not to dwell on that for too long. If the owner will come after me to cover the cost of repairs — which he was kind of entitled to — I’ll deal with it. Bridge, crossing and all that. Preferably later. Much later. Possibly never.

I pushed open the office door and was greeted by a man who looked like he’d been carved out of boredom and nicotine. His entire aura said the opposite of customer service. If customer service was a bright, chirpy sunflower, this man was the grey cloud blocking it.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound like a functioning adult that people will absolutely come searching for if she were to go missing. “I’m here for my car. Nissan Almera, registration number…”

“Not here.” He cut me off.

I stared. “What do you mean, not here?” My eyes darted around quickly to confirm I was in the right place.

He blinked at me. Slowly. Like a lizard warming up, then shrugged. “It’s not here.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like it might c***k my skull. “Is it… somewhere else?” I tried, still unsure if he was talking about the car not being here or me walking into the wrong office.

Another shrug. “If it’s not here, it’s somewhere else.” He punctuated each helpful word like I was thick. Like I was the one who misplaced a whole car.

I blinked, the ridiculousness of the situation nearly frying my brain. My neurons were packing their bags and leaving. Some were already halfway down the motorway.

I fished the letter I received in the post that told me where the car was impounded and explained the daily rates. Waving the papers in the man’s face, I tried again.

“I want to pay the impound fees and get the car released, please.”

“The owner deals with that stuff,” he said, pointing vaguely towards a back office. “But he left for the day. Had something to deal with, and I’m just minding the shop until closing.”

I looked at the clock.

4:02 PM.

Of course he had left. Of course the one competent person in this building had evaporated the moment I arrived. Probably through a trapdoor.

“Fantastic, but what about…”

“But your car is not here.” He stated again, clearly not finished with his explanation. He looked almost annoyed.

Welcome to the frustration club, buddy.

“Ok, I get that, that’s ok. Can you tell me where it is, then?”

“No clue.” He shook his head and glanced at the clock, already mentally clocked out. His soul had left the building along with my brain cells and patience.

“So you’re telling me,” I said, leaning on the counter because my spine had given up on life, “that my car — which was definitely here — is now not here, and you don’t know where it went?”

He nodded, proud of himself for following the plot. Or maybe proud of me that I finally got what he was trying to explain.

“Do you have any paperwork that might explain where it went? A note? A sign from God?” I started to panic that I was too late in releasing it and it went to the junkyard, forever to be turned into a thousand cans that will hold tuna and beans.

“Nope, sorry.”

And to be fair, he seemed genuinely sorry once he saw the colour drain from my face. Like he’d just realised he might be responsible for a stranger’s emotional collapse. He even shifted slightly, as if preparing to catch me if I fainted.

I inhaled through my nose, exhaled through my mouth, and reminded myself that prison food probably tasted worse than diner food, so murder was not an option.

“Okay,” I said, backing away before I committed a felony. “Thank you for… whatever this was.”

He gave me a thumbs‑up.

I wanted to bite it off but instead I turned on my heels and left.

The bus ride home was a special kind of hell. The kind of hell where the seats are sticky, the windows don’t open, and someone is eating something that smells like regret.

My feet throbbed. My head pounded. My uniform smelled like someone had deep‑fried sadness in it. And the guilt — the heavy, suffocating guilt — sat on my chest like a fat cat.

I hadn’t visited Mum today.

I lost her car.

I was officially the worst daughter in history.

By the time I reached the building where our apartment was, I was one stubbed toe away from crying in the stairwell like a Victorian ghost. The kind that haunts people not out of malice but because she’s tired and overwhelmed.

I trudged toward the entrance, digging for my keys, mentally preparing myself for the climb to the third floor because the lift had been broken since I was a toddler.

Out of habit, I looked right and left.

Then I froze.

The car — the actual, real, definitely‑impounded car — was parked on the street in front of the building. Not where I usually park, but I swear it wasn’t there when I left in the morning.

I blinked again, because surely I was hallucinating from exhaustion.

Nope.

Still there.

Still ugly.

Still mine.

I walked toward it slowly, like it might vanish if I moved too fast.

“What in the actual hell…” I whispered.

The door was locked.

The windows were intact.

The tyres were still attached — except they weren’t the bald ones I had on before. These ones looked brand new.

That threw me off a bit, but upon checking the plate and peeking inside I was sure about this being my car.

I quickly took out the spare key I had in my bag and lo and behold, it worked.

“What in the world?”

I looked around the street, half expecting a camera crew to jump out and tell me I’d won a prize. Or that I was being pranked. Or that the universe had finally decided to give me a break.

But no one was there.

Just me.

My car.

And the creeping suspicion that something very weird was going on.

The thing is, it’s never that easy. There’s always a catch.

I leaned against the hood, letting my head fall back, exhaustion washing over me in a wave. To the outside it manifested into laughter. Unhinged, uncontrolled laughter.

“Okay,” I muttered to the sky. “Sure. Why not. This is fine. Everything is fine.”

It was not fine.

Was I laughing or crying now?

No clue.

Didn’t care.

The car was home like nothing ever happened.

Like it just went out and got itself new tyres.

Cause that’s normal.

Normal or not, for tonight, that was enough.