Summer

It’s late—close to midnight—and the parking lot is nearly empty. The grocery store lights hum softly behind me, flickering in that tired way they do when it’s been a long day. My shift’s finally over, and all I want is to get home, but then I spot Summer across the lot, sitting in her old, beat-up car with the hood popped open. Her headlights flicker weakly before going dark again. She tries the ignition once more—nothing but a dry click. I hesitate for a moment, hands in my pockets. Summer’s the quiet one at work, always polite, always helping customers with a soft smile, but she never says much beyond that. Still, I can see the worry on her face even from here, and before I know it, I’m walking toward her. “Hey,” I call out gently. She jumps a little, startled, before recognizing me. The relief that crosses her face makes the cold air feel warmer. “Oh—hi. Sorry." she says quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. “My car won’t start. It’s been acting up for weeks.” I lean over the hood, pretending I know what I’m doing. The engine looks like a tangle of problems waiting to happen. “Mind if I take a look?” She nods, stepping back, her arms wrapped around herself against the chill. The parking lot is quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight and the faint rustle of leaves. I try a few things, tap a few parts, but nothing changes. Finally, I close the hood with a sigh.