30 hours to go...

You know that special feeling you get when you know something no one else knows? Something profound? Something so important it would change the rest of humanity if you shared it?

Well, I didn’t have that feeling. What I had was sweat. Cold and slimy.

“What?” Daniel asked.

“Huh? What? Nothing.”

“You keep staring at me.”

“No I don’t,” I said too fast and pulled out my eco-friendly water bottle. I gave it a swirl, stirring up the lemon juice inside. Did I add too much lemon? It was a bit cloudy. What if I did add too much lemon? Does Daniel know about that sort of stuff? He probably does?

“You’re doing it now,” Daniel said.

“We were talking,” I said. “Isn’t that what people do when they talk. They look at each other.”

“Yeah, but I’m driving,” he snarled and hit the steering wheel.

I flinched. “Right. Ok then,” I said and looked out the window, feeling as if I’d been slapped somehow. “So touchy,” I mumbled to myself.

Daniel tugged on his tie and tried to unbutton the collar button. He grunted and muttered to himself, nearly ripping the button off in the process.

“It’s too hot in here,” Daniel snapped.

His hand trembled as he punched the air onto full blast. It was only a slight tremor, something that happened to Karen often when she drank too much coffee.

Despite the blast of cold air, sweat gathered down along his temples and down his neck.

The light changed to yellow and he slammed on the brakes. Panting, he said, “You mind opening my water for me?” Then he pulled out a small capsule that hung on a chain around his neck.

I’d never seen the necklace before. In fact, I couldn’t think of a time when Daniel Park ever wore jewelry. He’d probably say it was a waste of money.

He unwound the capsule and popped the tiny pill into his mouth.

“Here--”

He snatched the bottle from me, water sloshing over his hand and the gear shift. It was all over before the light changed to green.

“Umm..you ok?” I asked. “Should we pull over? I could drive?”

“Pain killer,” he said and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

He continued driving and a minute later the alarm on his phone chimed. He exhaled, a sharp sound, like relief. He flicked the alarm notification, but I noticed that in eight hours it would go off again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take Tylenol, let alone painkillers,” I said.

“Yeah well, turning into a zombie takes a toll on the body.”

I took a sip of lemon water and almost spit.

Daniel didn’t turn to look at me or ask me what was wrong. Instead he arched an eyebrow. I held the water in my mouth and forced myself to swallow it. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was about to smile. I took another long drink of water, glugging down the bitter sour water.

He nodded.

I nodded.

We drove in the odd silence of Daniel’s heavy sighs and labored breaths, until they eventually subsided.

I swirled my water again. Maybe I hadn’t mixed it enough.

You may be asking yourself why not just admit that the water was sour. That wasn’t my mistake. Ok, maybe it was a mistake. The biggest mistake I made was underestimating people. And the construction zone.

Construction had forced everyone into a narrow lane. Nothing but gridlock traffic. It was the perfect bottle neck.

Daniel leaned his head against his hand and glared at the traffic, as if he could force it to move with his steady gaze. Just when I thought we would never move again, we crawled forward a few inches, only to come to standing for so long Daniel threw the car into park.

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped, but this was a whimper in comparison to the irritable snarl from earlier.

I wasn’t that eager to meet the Police officer, or tour a school, or even think about small kids hiding in a bathroom. But I’d rather get it over with than feel closed in. We were surrounded by cars, eighteen wheelers, a garbage truck, an ambulance, motorcycles, a frustrated mother, a dog in a truck bed, an empty flat, trailer hitched to an old truck. We were surrounded.

I took a swig of water from my eco-friendly water bottle and spit.

Daniel’s cheek twitched with the threat of laughter.

“Too much lemon,” I said and dabbed my chin with the back of my hand. Daniel stared at me. It was one of those uncomfortable looks that made you wonder if there was something stuck between your teeth and question how long it’d been there.

I gestured at the congestions and said, “Maybe we should just turn around and have a phone conference? We can visit the schools another time.” Just speaking it into existence made my stomach ache. I put the bottle to my lips--

“Stop that,” Daniel said and snatched the bottle from me. “It’s obviously sour.”

“It was the lemons. Wrong type,” I said.

“Lemons are sour,” he pointed out.

The car in front of us started honking. Next to us, the dog in the truck bed barked. The woman in front of us, stuck her head out, and cursed.

“I’m detoxifying,” I countered.

“I thought you weren’t.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Maybe less lemon juice next time.”

The woman in front of us got out of her car.

“What is she doing?” I said and started to roll down the window.

Daniel tapped on the control panel and my window froze. “Stop that,” he said and rolled it back up.

“People like her are probably why we’re stuck in traffic. And didn’t she have a baby in the car? Isn’t that what the little sticker on her window is for?”

“Something’s going on,” Daniel said and rose part way out of his seat, trying to look past the car in front of him. “Maybe an accident.”

The man beside us looked in his rearview mirror, pointed at something to the guy next to him. The passenger pulled a blue bandana and wiped his face.

It was hot. No, it was stuffy.

The heat from so many cars, the heat rising from the asphalt, the heat of too many bodies, too much everything, was suffocating.

“See anything?” I asked and looked behind us. What had that guy noticed? The traffic?

Daniel shook his head. “Nothing,” he sighed and after a moment of hesitation handed me back my bottle. “Next time don’t leave the lemon in for so long. You could just squeeze a little into your water, throw the rind away.”

“It’s gridlock behind us too,” I whispered and tugged on the collar of my t-shirt.

The dog beside me leapt out of the truck bed. The man should have chased after the dog, but he didn’t. He watched his German Shepherd weave in and out of the cars, watched it grow smaller. He should’ve yelled at it, commanded it to return.

Instead he did something odd.

The man who did not chase after his dog, tied the blue bandana around his face, so that only his eyes were visible. He looked like a burglar in a cartoon, but more disturbing was how familiar he seemed. When his eyes met mine, he gave me a little wink.

“Maybe add a cucumber,” Daniel said.

“You hate cucumbers,” I said and looked at him. The air conditioning was on full blast, but sweat beaded at his temples and at the back of his neck, so that his hair stood out in little spikes.

“Yeah,” he said and tossed his hair, causing a few stray strands to stick to his skin. “But you like them.”

“What’s going on?” I asked and felt the tremble in my voice.

“Don’t know,” he said and readjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“You’re lying,” I said and unbuckled my seatbelt. “Something’s wrong, damn it.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Sandy--”

A scream rose above the hum of traffic.

I flinched, released the seat belt. When it clanked against the side of the door I flinched again.

“What the hell was that?” Daniel asked.

Another scream.

Then another.

The hairs on my arms rose and my breathing became fast and choppy.

“Daniel?” I said as if that could keep the panic away.

Screaming, someone ran past us. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”

A woman wearing nursing scrubs crashed into the hood of our car. Dizzy, she clutched her head, blood oozed from a wound to her scalp.

“Jesus Christ, Daniel!” I cried in panic.

Daniel fumbled with his seatbelt. “Stay here,” he said.

The woman rolled off of the hood and stumbled into my window. Breathing heavy, she pressed her hand against it.

“Help…,” she said, her voice slurred.

Then she vanished into a wave of screaming, panicked, hysterical people as they ran past us, leaving behind only a wet handprint.

“Shit,” I said and opened the car door.