Tuesday mornings were a habit Michael Harrison could run in his sleep. Up at 5:30 a.m., breakfast for Lily, his 9-year-old, backpack, hair, shoes, bus stop by 7:15.
Then the rush across town to clock in at 8:00 a.m. at Morrison Supply Chain Management. At 34, Michael had perfected the single-dad race—though “perfected” might be optimistic, considering how often he showed up breathless and apologizing.
But today was supposed to be different. Today he’d left early. A real buffer—a small chance to arrive on time for once and maybe even quiet the constant warnings about punctuality.
Then he saw the car on the shoulder of Route 9. A luxury black sedan with its hazards blinking, angled awkwardly near the edge of the road. Michael nearly drove past. Being on time was finally within reach, and stopping would ruin it.
But then he saw her: a woman in an elegant brown dress, clearly pregnant, standing beside the sedan with worry written all over her face. Michael’s conscience beat his self-preservation, and he pulled over.
“Ma’am—are you okay?” he called as he approached.
She turned, and Michael realized she was further along than he’d assumed—around eight months. Blonde hair styled like she’d stepped out of a boardroom, with jewelry that didn’t belong on the side of a highway. Yet her expression was pure fear.
“My tire,” she said, gesturing helplessly. “It blew out. And I have a meeting in Portland in 90 minutes—an important one. I can’t miss it.”
Michael checked his watch: 7:42 a.m. If he moved fast, maybe he’d still make work by 8:15. Maybe.
“You have a spare?” he asked.
Hope washed over her. “In the trunk. But I’ve never… I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“It’s fine,” he said, already heading for the back of the car. “I’ve got it.”
(The decision to help is about to cost him everything! Click “Next Page” to continue reading…)
