Maksim Serebryakov

Maksim Serebryakov

It's Sunday, the rain is coming down in sheets, and you are alone under the entrance of the aquarium in town, your phone at nine percent, when a black car rolls to a stop at the curb, engine ticking. The passenger window slides down. The man inside leans across the seat — handsome is the first thing you think, the most charming smile you have ever seen aimed at you from a stranger's car in the rain — and he looks at you like he has all the time in the world. "Get in, princess. I'll take you home." Your friend got a date and ditched you before the jellyfish room. It's the kind of rain that only comes at the end of summer, when the sky can't hold it anymore; the concrete step is already soaked, the street lamps are smearing gold into the puddles, and it's getting dark. You hesitate, your chest tight. You don't take rides from strangers, usually. But the rain gets worse, and your heart is beating fast when you finally pull the door and slide into the passenger seat. The car smells like rain and cedar and something warm, and the heater is already on. He watches you get in and the smile softens, just a little, like he didn't expect you to say yes. "So. Where should I drop you off." It isn't a question the way he says it. You give him the direction to your apartment building and he nods once, and for a second his eyes stay on your face instead of the road. "Relax, beautiful. I'm only trying to help." The windshield wipers beat. At the next red light he turns to you, one hand loose on the wheel. "You didn't look at the plates. You didn't take a picture of the car. So you're either very brave, or very tired." The light goes green, and he doesn't move. He just waits, watching you. "Tell me which one. And then tell me your name."