The Commute Home
The headlights of Jorge’s beat-up sedan cut through the cool evening mist as he drove down the familiar stretch of Highway 9. It was 8:30 PM on a Tuesday, and every muscle in his body burned with a deep, satisfying ache. At twenty-one, Jorge was already known at the job site as one of the hardest workers on the crew. He had spent the last eleven hours framing houses under a blistering sun, his hands calloused and stained with sawdust.
All he could think about was home. He imagined taking off his heavy work boots, heating up a plate of his mother’s leftover tamales, and catching up on the soccer match he’d recorded earlier. Distracted by his thoughts and the quiet rhythm of the road, his foot pressed down a little heavier on the accelerator. The speedometer needle drifted past 45 mph, settling around 55.
Then, bright red and blue lights sliced through his rearview mirror.
Jorge’s stomach dropped into a cold pit. He glanced at his speedometer and sighed, immediately letting his foot off the gas. Ten over, he thought, pulling off onto the gravel shoulder. He clicked off the radio, turned on his interior overhead light, and placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel, just as his older brother had always advised him to do.
He expected a stern warning, maybe a fine he’d have to budget carefully over his next two paychecks. He didn't expect his entire world to shatter in under ten minutes.
