A stranger kept stealing my parking spot, leaving nothing but his phone number on my windshield. Whenever I called, he never explained—just moved the car and vanished into the night. Something about it felt unsettling. But the day I learned who he was, my world shattered in two.
The fluorescent lights in the office had been gnawing at my eyes for nearly eleven hours when I finally powered down my computer and shuffled out to the parking lot that Tuesday evening. My neck felt like it had been locked in a vice all day, and the dull throb in my temples warned me that a migraine was waiting just around the corner. All I wanted was to drive home, collapse on my couch, and breathe in the smell of whatever dinner my wife, Sophie, had made.
