Running Late

Shower. Teeth. Coffee in the travel mug — the one with the chip on the rim you keep meaning to replace. Keys. Jacket. Door.

The hallway smells like it always does: industrial carpet cleaner and someone's overcooked breakfast. Mrs. Reeves from 4B nods at you from her doorway. She's holding her cat. The cat stares at you with an intensity that feels personal.

Downstairs. Parking lot. Car starts on the second try — the battery's been weak since August.

The drive is ten minutes. You've done it a thousand times. That's the thing about Waseca — everything is ten minutes from everything else. Past the Kwik Trip, past the Lutheran church with the missing letters on the marquee ('GOD IS G D'), past the elementary school where the crossing guard always waves even though you never wave back.

Today you wave back.

The crossing guard doesn't wave.

That's strange. She always waves first.

You check the mirror. She's standing perfectly still, watching your car recede. Not waving. Not moving. Just watching. Like an NPC whose script got paused mid-line.

The intersection at State and 4th is ahead. Green light. You accelerate through downtown — past the old Ottmar Furrier building, past the county courthouse.

The truck comes from the left.

You don't even have time to brake.