“All right.” Indira taps her keyboard. “You have a Hyundai Elantra booked for tomorrow morning at seven-thirty. Return time is the same the next day.” She prints a page and gives it to me.

The rental office address is just a block from my house. “What time do they close in the evening?”

She checks the screen. “Six.”

“Hopefully I’ll be able to return it the same day. It would cost more to park the car overnight than to rent it.”

“The joys of living in Manhattan,” Indira replies.

***

As expected, the drive out of New York is a nightmare. But having left early, I manage to get to my before-lunch appointment in time. Brenda, my contact from my old job, welcomes me into her office with a tight smile.

Still, coming off from my Saskia Landon success, I’m confident. I finally have the validation my fashion pages needed. Now I need to secure the same big-brand recognition for the beauty section.

The meeting doesn’t last long. Skeptical as Brenda might have been, I came with my marketing guns loaded. Having Tracy Bell as the beauty vlogger and mentioning Saskia is enough to lock in a weekly supply of products for Tracy to test, review, and give away. Brenda doesn’t agree on any extra paid advertisement, but that was only a long shot I had to try. All in all, I get to go home satisfied.

When I stop to fill the tank two hours later, my body is a muscle-cramping mess. I just crossed over into Manhattan, and I can’t wait to give this metal box back. I use every movement getting out of the car to stretch a needy muscle, anticipating the yoga workout I’ve been planning in my head for the entire return drive.

It takes me a minute to locate the button to release the gasoline cover. Why would they hide it almost under the driver seat? As I round the car, I catch the eye of a guy refueling his bike at the next pump. He’s clearly giving me a sexist woman-at-the-wheel stare. Chin up, I ignore him and move along with my business.

As I’m struggling to lock the hose, something cold and moist touches my naked calf. I jerk back and yell in surprise. Unfortunately, I yank the hose away from the tank as well, spilling gasoline all over the station and my legs. I release the handle and try to assess the damage. My skirt is soaked and I’ve spilled gasoline on the side of the car and… on the dog at my feet.

“Hello. Who are you?”

The small animal yelps pityingly and sniffs my calf again. I put the hose back into the tank and kneel down. The dog, more of a puppy actually, tries to jump in my lap. “Oh, look at you. Are you alone?”