Déjà vu

The driver grunts then reaches over the woman to crank the window the rest of the way down. His blue eyes seem kind. He looks nothing like the person the Bible says I’m supposed to honor . . . yet something about the blonde man is unpleasantly paternal. Unseen fingers tap at the base of my neck and traipse down my spine.

When the man offers me a lift, I hesitate then refuse with a shake of my head. “Are you sure?” His expression is concerned, but his next words make me feel stupid—a thing dear old Dad accomplished daily. “It’s a good thirty miles in either direction to the next town; it wouldn’t be wise for you to stay out here all alone.”

What business is it of his? There’s no way I’m getting in a car with this jackass! I pull out my cell phone and wave it in the stifling air. “Thanks anyway, but I just talked to my father. He’ll be here any minute.”

Two hours later I’m startled out of a fitful sleep when a car horn blasts behind me. Damp hair matted to my forehead, I get out of the front seat wearing a scowl. Arms spread, I yell, “What?”

A stocky man with a poor excuse for a mustache exits the Escalade. The shape of his face reminds me of Casper the Friendly Ghost, only this guy has hair. His eyes are drawn to my flat tire. “Um, sorry," he says as he rubs sweat off his thick neck. "I just thought maybe you needed help.”

He’s got chubby cheeks, just like Dad’s.





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