Oh my God! I think. The engine’s on fire! My car’s about to explode. They’ll find me splattered on the pavement on Fourth Street. They won’t recognize me without the red hair, but DNA tests will confirm that it is indeed Star Beck who has met her bitter and tragic end thanks to an exploded car engine in St. Petersburg.

I’m snapped out of my self-pity by a pickup truck that has pulled up alongside me and has matched my speed. The guy in the passenger seat is gesturing wildly at me. It takes me a moment to realize he’s trying to get me to roll down my window.

“You have a flat tire!” he shouts once I finally oblige and put the driver’s-side window down. “Pull over!”

Oh. Of course. I knew that.

I slowly brake and steer my car onto the shoulder of the road. I expect the pickup driver to pull in behind me to help, but he just gives me a wave, accelerates and zooms on by!

Great. At least my engine isn’t about to explode. I guess I should be thankful for that. There will be no pop star splatterings on Fourth Street today.

I sit there for a moment wondering what to do. I realize I have absolutely no idea. I know it makes me sound really dumb, but honestly, I’ve never had a car before. Everything’s always been taken care of for me. Who are you supposed to call when your car breaks down?

Obviously I need to get help, but where? Maybe someone in the supermarket across the street will know. But getting there turns out to be easier said than done. First, I have to dart across three lanes of fast-moving northbound traffic to get to the median. Then I have to defy death again as I dart across the southbound lanes. I narrowly escape being splattered for the second time today. I’m breathing hard by the time I walk into the Winn-Dixie.

“Hi,” I say stupidly as I walk up to the customer service desk. “My car broke down. I mean, my tire. It’s flat. Across the street.”

The assistant manager behind the desk, who can’t be more than a few years older than me, stares at me and shrugs.

“I’ll call a tow truck for you,” he says. “You got AAA?”

“Why does everyone think I’m in rehab?” I exclaim, frustrated.

He stares at me. “No, not AA.” He rolls his eyes. “Triple A. The auto club.”

I blush. “Oh. Uh, in that case, no. I don’t have AAA.”

I actually don’t even know what AAA is.

He makes a call, then tells me a tow truck will be there in fifteen minutes. “It’ll be expensive, though,” he warns.

I feel a knot form in the pit of my stomach. I only have a little over four hundred dollars left.