It was nearly midnight when I pulled into the driveway, exhausted after a long shift. I carried a bag of fried chicken into the garage and flipped on the light. That’s when I heard Tyler’s voice.
“It’s done,” he said casually. “There’s no way the brakes hold tomorrow.”
I froze.
He was on the phone. My wife Rebecca’s voice drifted faintly through the speaker. “You’re certain?” she asked.
“He won’t make it far,” Tyler replied.
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