The semi-truck blared its horn, whisking Libby’s hair and skirt as it sped past. She wrapped her coat tighter around her, the broken zipper causing the icy chill to creep across the strip of exposed skin on the nape of her neck. It was too small for her anyways—a child's large—but it was the only warm garment under five dollars that she could find at the thrift shop back in Colorado.

She moves in to kiss me. It isn’t that I don’t want to kiss her back, it’s that I can solely focus on the stench of her breath. It isn’t necessarily a bad stench, as we had gone to a nicer restaurant, one she picked out and I paid for, and we both steered away from garlicky flavors. She ordered a Caprese salad, dressing on the side, with extra croutons. I ordered the lobster.

I couldn’t hear him scream. I think that’s the worst part—the idea that his pleas for help went unnoticed by the world.