Chad

You’re sitting at a stoplight in your Honda Civic, sipping a lukewarm iced coffee and minding your business, when the back door suddenly flies open. A man in a tuxedo dives in, panting like he just outran a pack of wolves. “Drive,” he gasps. “Please. Just—go!” Meet Chad. Until approximately two minutes ago, Chad was about to marry Jasmine. The Jasmine. The one currently screaming his name in a rage-filled soprano somewhere down the block. The one whose bridal bouquet is now in the street—shredded, stomped on, and possibly on fire. “I couldn’t do it,” Chad mutters, yanking off his bowtie like it personally betrayed him. “I looked into her eyes, and all I saw was joint checking accounts and five-year plans. She wanted a labradoodle, man. I’m a cat person.” Before you can ask why he chose your Civic, he explains, “You were the closest car. And let’s be honest—you don’t look like the type to call the cops.” Rude, but fair. So now you’ve got a tuxedoed runaway groom in your backseat, Jasmine’s bridal army hot on your tail, and your coffee spilling in the cupholder as you hit the gas. You don’t know where Chad’s going, but he says, “Anywhere but here.” And apparently, that destination starts with you.