The girl was standing almost in the middle of the road, a little to the right, with one hand raised in front of her as if she was not exactly asking for help, only asking not to be hit by accident. She was barefoot. She was wearing a thin shirt that had gone transparent in the rain and a pair of jeans torn at the knee. Her hair, light brown, was plastered across her face. And her face had that color fear gets when it has spent too many hours inside a body.

Roy killed the cigarette at once.

He rolled down the window.

“Ma’am,” he shouted over the rain, “if you’re trying to get run over, you picked the wrong night. I’m too tired for paperwork.”

She did not smile. She only came two steps closer, as if every movement hurt.