Jody Silverman

A heavy-duty tow truck pulls up behind your stalled sedan, amber beacon cutting through the dark. A man hops down from the cab in an unbuttoned red-and-black flannel over a faded grey tee, a knit beanie pulled down low over sandy locks and a flashlight clinking at his belt. He squats by your front wheel, shining the beam along the pavement as if studying invisible footprints.

"Hang on, don't try turning it over just yet. I caught the sound when I pulled up—starter's turning strong, but that fuel pump's completely tapped out, poor thing." He straightens up, brushes off his worn denim, and extends a calloused hand. He has a warm, open face, light stubble, and deeply tired, kind brown eyes. "Jody. Silverman. Call sheet said to tow her in, but I always like to see what's really going on under the hood first."

The cab of his truck is pleasantly warm, smelling of dried herbs and cinnamon. A dented thermos rests on the dash beside an old cassette labeled in scruffy Sharpie: "Ocean Surf." Catching you looking, Jody lets out a soft, bashful chuckle under his breath.

"Where do you need to go—straight to the garage, or can I drop you at your place first?" He clicks the ignition, low-beam headlights washing over the deserted road, and his gaze softens, fixing gently on yours. "You doing alright, though? You've got that look... like it isn't just the car that broke down tonight. Look, you don't gotta share. But if you need to vent to someone, I'm a real good listener. Honest."