I pressed the 9…and the screen blinked black. I held down the power button. Nothing. Why did I always forget to charge the darn thing? I was certain my charger was packed somewhere among the moving boxes and I had yet to find it.

By now the other driver had stepped out of his car, a dark-colored beater maybe ten, fifteen years old with one busted taillight. I turned on my overhead light and rummaged through my center console, found a pen and scrap of paper, then jotted down his license plate number. In my dashboard compartment I found my insurance card, readying myself to hash out the details with this strange man.

Walking around his car, investigating the damage, he eventually ambled toward my car with a crooked gait. His clothes were nondescript—greasy jeans, button-up shirt hanging loose, T-shirt underneath. He reached up and made a token effort to neaten his flattened crop of hat hair. Just a working stiff, I figured, dog-tired from a long day on the job. Pissed to be involved in a fender-bender. But I wasn’t taking any chances as I instinctively locked all the doors with the master button.

I checked the time. I really hoped I made it home in time for the Gilmore Girls season finale. Oliver hadn’t shut off our cable or loaded the television onto the moving truck yet because of it. The show represented the dream mother-daughter relationship that I hoped one day would be my own, but until then I’d binge on Rory and Lorelai.

The driver was at my window now and bent down to my level. Bathed in the intermittent glow of his hazard lights, his face sported a three-day scruff—out of laziness, I figured, not trendiness. His dull eyes couldn’t seem to find a focus, darting from his car to me, to the road and back to me. When he suddenly rapped a dirty knuckle on my window, I gave a start, then nervously rolled it down only a sliver. We were completely alone, no cars, no witnesses, in the middle of a deserted road, and the sky was black as pitch.

I would have done just about anything for Rihanna’s SOS about now.

“Ya hit me,” he said so matter-of-fact that I was actually a bit terrified.

“I’m sorry, but you pulled out in front of me, sir.” I added the sir to hopefully cool any rising tension.

“Did ya call the cops?” he asked. “’Cause if we can settle this without involving the cops, I’d be mighty appreciative...” His eyes traveled down to the phone in my hand, then detoured to my insurance card in the other. “Felicity Portman.”