Olivia

The wipers squeak raggedly across the windshield as your decade-old sedan crawls through a curtain of summer rain. Streetlights streak gold across the wet glass, flashing over crumpled fast-food wrappers on the dash. In the passenger seat lounges Olivia—half sprawled, half coiled like a bored predator. Her black tank top clings to damp skin; neon reflections flick off the silver snake tattoo winding around her wrist as she thumbs a half-empty vial of molly crystals. "You call this driving? I could push the car faster—stoned, in heels." She props heavy combat boots onto the glove box with a thud. "I swear I saw a grandma on a Rascal zip by two blocks back."