"Taken After Four":
I had just finished my shift at the warehouse—twelve hours of loading trucks for the holiday rush. Christmas was only a few weeks away, and all I could think about on the drive home were the Barbie dolls I’d ordered for my little girl, Emily. She was seven, endlessly energetic, always bouncing between wanting to be a doctor or an astronaut. My wife, Lisa, stayed home with our toddler, and Emily usually hopped off the school bus a little after four.
I pulled into our gravel driveway just past five. The house sat back from the road, quiet and tucked between winter-bare fields. I expected to see Emily’s pink jacket tossed somewhere by the porch like always.
Instead, Lisa opened the door before I even reached it. Her face was drained of color.
“Emily’s not here,” she said. “I looked everywhere inside. She came home from school, we had a little fight about homework, and she went to her room. When I checked later… she was gone.”
I froze, lunchbox still in my hand.
“Gone? What do you mean gone? Did she go play outside? Check the barn?”
“I called for her. I searched the yard. Her backpack’s still in her room.”
We walked the property together—the shed where she liked to hide, the old swing set, the barn that creaked whenever the wind shifted. The sun was sinking low, draining color out of everything.
“Emily! Sweetheart!” I shouted, voice cracking across the field.
Nothing.
As we headed back toward the house, Lisa spoke again, almost reluctantly.
“Remember the delivery guy? FedEx came earlier. Dropped off a package—the dolls, I think. He handed it to me at the door.”
“Did Emily see him?”
“She was in her room. But maybe she came out after.”
I opened the package just to confirm. Inside, the Barbie set—“You Can Be Anything.” Emily had circled that one in the catalog weeks ago. The sight of it turned my stomach.
We called every parent we knew. No one had seen her.
By six, I was on the phone with the sheriff’s office. “My daughter is missing,” I said. “Seven years old, brown hair, pink jacket.”
Deputies arrived in minutes, lights strobing against our windows. Officer Ramirez, tall with a heavy mustache, listened carefully to everything we told him.
“We’ll put out an alert immediately,” he said. “Let’s start searching again.”
Flashlights cut across the property. Deputies called her name, their voices growing more strained as time dragged on. Neighbors showed up with lanterns and coffee. The quiet felt wrong—like the whole world was holding its breath.
By midnight, the living room had become a command post. Sheriff Akin arrived, calm but serious.
“We need every detail,” he said. “Especially about that delivery driver.”
Lisa described him—mid-thirties, dark hair, average build, FedEx jacket. Nothing unusual, nothing memorable. And somehow that felt worse.
No one slept. Lisa sat shaking beside me on the couch.
“What if she fell? What if she’s hurt somewhere?”
“We’ll find her,” I told her. But doubt was starting to gnaw at me from the inside.
At sunrise, investigators arrived. They questioned us separately, methodically. Then, finally—a lead.
“We contacted FedEx,” Sheriff Akin announced, gathering us in the kitchen. “The driver on your route is Tom Harris. Contract worker. We’re bringing him in now.”
My chest tightened. The man who delivered her Christmas gift… could he have seen her walk outside? Followed her? Taken her?
Lisa’s breath hitched. “You think he—?”
“We just need to talk to him,” the sheriff said.
Hours crawled by. Every second without Emily was another weight added to my chest.
Around noon, the phone rang.
“Mr. Strand? We have Harris in custody,” a detective said. “He’s talking.”
Lisa and I drove to the station in silence. Sheriff Akin met us in a small room, expression heavy.
“He confessed,” he said quietly. “But it’s… it’s bad.”
My whole body went still.
“What happened?”
“After delivering the package, he backed up the truck and accidentally hit Emily. Barely clipped her, he says. She wasn’t seriously hurt. She stood up. But he panicked. He put her in the truck.”
Lisa’s hand covered her mouth.
“He said she told him she’d tell you about the accident. He… he strangled her to keep her quiet.”
The words shattered something inside me.
“Where is she?” I whispered.
“He led us to her body. Creek bed about ten miles out, near Boyd.”
Lisa collapsed into sobs. I wrapped my arms around her, but inside, all I felt was a hollow, burning rage. The man who delivered her Christmas present—the box sitting unopened on our table—had taken her life.
They let us see Harris through the glass of an interrogation room. He was slumped forward, handcuffed, eyes empty. Not remorseful. Not frightened. Just… vacant.
“Why?” I asked the sheriff, voice barely audible.
He shook his head. “He says he didn’t mean to. But he made every choice that followed.”
The days that followed blurred into a fog. Funeral arrangements. Reporters. Pink flowers everywhere—her favorite. The Barbie set placed beside the casket.
At a press conference, Emily’s mother—my ex-wife, Karen—held up the Barbie box.
“This was supposed to be her Christmas joy,” she said. “Instead, a monster stole her from us.”
We pushed for stricter checks on contract delivery workers. But nothing—no policy, no apology, no lawsuit—could bring her back.
The trial dragged on for months. Evidence was overwhelming. Camera footage showed Emily stepping toward the truck, trusting him. Harris tried to break her neck first; when he failed, he used his hands.
I testified, voice breaking. “She hugged me that morning. Told me she couldn’t wait for Santa.”
Harris showed no emotion. Not a flicker.
The night before the verdict, I drove to the creek where they found her. The water murmured softly, completely indifferent.
“I’m sorry, baby girl,” I whispered. “Daddy loves you.”
When the jury convicted him, the courtroom felt silent, almost disappointed. Life or death—none of it mattered. Justice couldn’t fill the hollow space left behind.
Years later, I still check every lock twice. Every delivery truck makes my chest tighten.
Because once, a man in uniform came to our door carrying a package—and left carrying my daughter.
Emily could have been anything. Now she is a memory I guard fiercely, a ghost in pink sneakers, reminding me that evil doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes it smiles, hands you a box, and walks away with your world.
"The Flickering Light":
I started my shift that afternoon the same way I always did—rolling open the metal door of the delivery van, the warehouse lights buzzing overhead, the air thick with cardboard dust and the smell of diesel. Mid-December in South Florida meant the heat hadn’t completely backed off, so sweat gathered on my forehead before I even left the loading bay. Everyone was pushing hard for the holiday rush. The aisles were packed, workers shouting over each other, conveyor belts rattling as gifts for strangers shot past in every direction.
I’d been driving for Amazon for two years, mostly running routes around Fort Lauderdale—quiet family neighborhoods, retirees, folks walking their dogs, kids biking home before dinner. Nothing exciting. Nothing dangerous. Just long days, long miles, and one package after another. I didn’t mind it. Extra hours meant extra money, and extra money meant better presents for my wife and kids. Christmas was close, and that alone kept me moving.
The dispatcher handed me a thick stack of stops—more than usual. “Busy night,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Watch the traffic. People are out of their damn minds this week.”
“Got it,” I said, tucking the scanner into my vest. I climbed into the van, the seat creaking under me, and fired up the engine. The air conditioner struggled for a second before kicking in. Then I hit the road, weaving through streets lined with palm trees that shimmered under the streetlights.
For hours, everything was routine. Park. Drop off a box. Scan. Snap a photo. Back into the van. Repeat. The kind of monotony that makes your brain drift—thinking about what my daughter wanted for Christmas, thinking about how tired my wife must be chasing the kids all day, thinking about how good it would feel to finally get home.
By the time I reached my last few stops, the sky had gone deep purple. Most houses had their Christmas lights on, twinkling across manicured lawns. My next stop was on Northwest 10th Terrace—a darker, quieter side road with long stretches between homes and plenty of shadows where the streetlamps didn’t quite reach.
When I turned in, the van suddenly jerked hard to the right. At first, I thought I hit something, but then came the sickening, rhythmic flapping sound—rubber slapping pavement. Flat tire.
“Perfect,” I muttered.
I pulled over beneath a streetlamp that flickered like it couldn’t decide whether to stay alive or die. It wasn’t my first flat tire. I’d changed plenty on the job. I grabbed the tools from the back, knelt by the wheel, and started loosening the lug nuts.
That’s when I saw him.
A figure crossing the street toward me. Average height. Dark clothes. Hood up. Hands buried in his pockets. He didn’t look drunk. Didn’t look lost. He moved with this steady, controlled stride—like he already knew exactly where he was going. Exactly what he wanted.
“You need help?” he asked.
His voice was wrong. Too calm. Too empty. No concern in it. No curiosity. Just… flat.
I looked up. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
He didn’t stop walking. Not even a pause. Before I could stand fully, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and black.
Stun gun.
It crackled to life, a burst of sparks lighting his face for half a second.
Then he pressed it into my ribs.
Electricity tore through me like my entire body was being ripped apart from the inside. My muscles seized, locking up so hard I couldn’t even scream. The lug wrench slipped from my fingers, clattering against the pavement. My breath caught in my throat, and I collapsed sideways, trying to understand what was happening.
“Why—?” I gasped.
“Give me the keys,” he said.
Not angry. Not desperate. Just cold. Robotic.
Before I could respond, he shocked me again—this time on my arm. The pain was so raw I nearly vomited. I fell to my knees, vision swimming. My body felt like it was short-circuiting from the inside out.
He reached into my pocket and yanked out the key fob.
Then he pulled the knife.
The blade glinted under the flickering streetlamp—a brief flash of silver, like a warning I couldn’t comprehend fast enough.
Everything in me froze.
“This isn’t just a robbery,” I whispered.
He lunged.
The first slash tore across my shoulder, fire spreading down my arm as blood soaked through my uniform. I stumbled back, hands raised. “Take the van!” I yelled. “Just take it!”
But he wasn’t listening.
He stabbed again, this time in my side—deep. I felt the blade punch through skin, muscle, something vital. The air left my lungs in a choking gasp. I grabbed his wrist, fighting back with everything I had. We fell sideways, hitting the pavement hard. My vision tunneled, heartbeat roaring in my ears.
This guy didn’t want the van.
He wanted me.
My hand scraped the ground until I felt the metal of the lug wrench. I wrapped my fingers around it and swung blindly, cracking it against his knee. He let out a grunt—more irritated than hurt—and loosened his grip just enough.
I shoved him off and staggered to my feet, blood running warm down my torso. My legs were shaking, but adrenaline forced me forward. I sprinted toward the nearest house, the porch light glowing like a lifeline.
I pounded on the door. “Help! Help me! Please!”
Nothing.
I hit it harder, practically throwing myself at it.
Still nothing.
Behind me, his footsteps approached—slow, patient, like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re done,” he called, voice drifting across the street.
Terror surged through me. I turned and ran, lungs burning, vision dimming at the edges. I rounded the corner and spotted a small convenience store up ahead. Warm light poured through the windows. People inside.
I pushed my legs harder, even as they started to buckle.
The door slammed open when I crashed into it. I stumbled inside, collapsing against the counter. “Call 911,” I gasped. “He—he stabbed me—”
The clerk’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God—sit down, sit down—”
Two customers rushed over. One grabbed a towel. Another held me upright as I slid down the counter.
“Stay with us, man. Stay awake.”
The world blurred. Spots of light flickered in and out. My chest felt tight, every breath a struggle. Someone shouted that police were on the way. Someone else said my shirt was turning red too fast.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Then everything went dim.
When I woke up in the ambulance, a paramedic leaned over me. “You’ve got seven stab wounds,” he said. “One punctured your lung. We're keeping it inflated. Stay with us.”
I tried to speak, but all I could do was nod weakly.
Later at the hospital, after surgery, after questions, after the long slow return of sensation to my body, the police told me they caught him. Curtis Gardner. Thirty-three. Long record. Violent history. They said he slashed my tire beforehand. That he was waiting.
Waiting for me.
Attempted murder. Armed robbery. Pre-meditated.
Weeks passed. I healed physically, more or less. Scars marked where his knife had entered. But the mental scars… those stayed sharper.
I quit the job. Found something safer. Something that didn’t require stepping into dark neighborhoods with my back turned.
But sometimes, driving home at night, I still see him—the way he walked, the way he didn’t hesitate, the way the stun gun crackled before the world lit up with pain.
And even now, whenever I see a delivery van pulled over on the side of the road under a flickering streetlamp, a chill runs through me.
Because I know how quickly things can go wrong.
How fragile a life can be.
How close I came to losing mine on a quiet street just days before Christmas.
"Followed Me All Night":
I had been driving for the food delivery app for about six months when the holiday rush hit full force. Extra orders meant extra money, and with two kids at home, I needed every dollar I could squeeze out of the night. So on Christmas Eve, instead of winding down with my family, I decided to work late. Most people were gathered around living rooms, eating leftovers or unwrapping early gifts—but there were always a few who still wanted their meals delivered hot.
My phone kept buzzing with pickups from diners and fast-food joints that stayed open through the night. I told myself I’d finish by two in the morning, go home, and wrap presents before the kids woke up.
The first few runs were easy. I grabbed a bag of burgers from a drive-thru and dropped them off at an apartment complex. The guy at the door handed me a five and said, “Merry Christmas, man. Stay safe out there.” I smiled, told him the same.
Next was a pizza order to a house at the edge of town. A tired-looking mom answered—hair messy, dark circles under her eyes, but still trying to be polite. “Thank you for coming this late,” she said. “My husband works nights too.” We talked for a minute about how crazy the season was. She tipped well, and for a moment the job felt human, warm.
But as I stepped back into my car, I noticed a sedan parked across the street with its lights off. Two figures sat inside, silhouettes barely moving. I brushed it off—plenty of people sit in cars late at night.
Still, the image stuck in my mind as I drove to my next pickup, a Chinese place downtown. While waiting inside, I called my wife.
“Hey, love,” I said. “Just a couple more orders, then I’m done.”
She sounded uneasy. “Don’t push it too hard tonight. Empty roads freak me out.”
I laughed. “I’ll be fine. Kiss the kids for me.”
But when I got back on the road, my rearview mirror caught something that made my stomach dip. The same sedan from earlier was behind me—same shape, same headlights. I told myself it was coincidence, but when I turned onto a side street toward the next drop-off, the sedan turned too.
The house was quiet, porch light glowing faintly. I left the bag by the door and snapped the proof photo for the app. As I walked back, the sedan rolled slowly past me. The windows were tinted black, impossible to see through. I kept my head down and my pace even, but my pulse was hammering. They didn’t stop—but they wanted me to know they were there.
Inside my car, I locked the doors fast.
Another order popped up—Denny’s, ten minutes away. Good tip promised. I sighed and accepted. That tip would go straight toward the kids’ gifts.
But as I pulled onto the main road, the sedan reappeared in my mirror like it had been waiting. My throat went dry.
I called a friend who also delivered at night. “You out?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Think someone’s following me.”
He didn’t joke, didn’t laugh. “Turn around if you can. Or call the cops. Don’t brush it off, man.”
I hung up with a promise to be careful.
At a red light, I stared into the mirror. The sedan was two cars back. The moment the light changed, I sped up.
I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot—one of the few places still alive this late. Inside, people were scattered around: a family with kids sharing pancakes, two workers on a break, a few night owls. It felt safe in a way the empty streets didn’t.
“Pickup for Johnson,” I told the waitress at the counter.
“Five minutes,” she said with a tired smile.
While I waited, two young guys walked in—hoodies, masks, hands buried in pockets. They didn’t order. They sat near the door, whispering to each other, throwing glances my way. I pretended to scroll on my phone, but every nerve in my body was on high alert.
The waitress handed me the bag. “Drive safe.”
“Thanks,” I said, but my voice felt thin.
Outside, the cold air slapped me awake. My car was only a few steps away. I reached for the handle—
Footsteps. Fast.
I spun around. The two guys from inside were almost on me. One had a baton. The other…something metallic in his hand. A gun? Or a fake? I didn’t have time to figure it out.
“Keys and wallet,” the baton guy growled.
“I—I got family,” I stammered. “Please.”
The one with the gun lifted it, pointing it square at me. “Now.”
My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat. The diner door was twenty feet away—if I shouted, maybe someone inside would notice. But they were too close. Too fast.
The baton guy swung. The hit cracked against my arm, white-hot pain exploding up to my shoulder. I dropped the food.
“STOP!” I yelled. “HELP!”
The gun guy grabbed my shirt, yanking me forward. “Shut up.”
Adrenaline made the world narrow to a tunnel. I twisted hard, shoving him back. He stumbled, surprised. That was my only chance. I ran.
The baton slammed across my back, knocking the breath from my lungs. I hit the pavement, skinned my hands, tasted blood.
“Get him!” the gun guy barked.
I scrambled up and threw myself at the diner door, banging with everything I had. Inside, people shot to their feet. The waitress screamed, “CALL 911!”
The attackers froze when they saw everyone watching. And then, as if on cue, faint sirens wailed somewhere in the distance—maybe unrelated, but loud enough to rattle them.
They grabbed my keys off the ground, sprinted to my car, and peeled out of the lot.
I slumped against the door, gasping, my arm throbbing like it was on fire. The manager rushed out.
“Oh my God—are you okay?”
“I—I think so,” I croaked. “They took my car.”
Police showed up minutes later. I gave them everything I could: two teens, dark hoodies, masks, one taller than the other. They found my car abandoned a mile away, emptied of everything but a few old delivery bags.
No arrests that night, but the officers said the description matched a string of robberies.
I spent Christmas in the hospital with a fractured arm, bruised ribs, and a wife who couldn’t stop shaking as she held my hand. The kids climbed into the bed with me, completely unaware how close things had come.
“Never again,” my wife whispered. “No more late nights.”
Even now, months later, I still check my mirrors every time I drive. That night taught me something brutal and simple: danger doesn’t announce itself. One minute you’re earning a little extra for your family. The next, you’re running for your life in an empty parking lot.
And sometimes, the scariest part is how fast everything can change.
"The Quad Bike":
I had been driving for a food delivery app for almost a year, long enough to know that Christmas Day shifts were a gamble. Sometimes they were slow, sometimes they were chaos. But in 2024, with my kids expecting presents I could barely afford, I couldn’t turn down the holiday pay boost. So I clocked in that evening, loaded up my moped, and headed out into the quiet streets of Epsom.
It felt like the whole town had gone still. Houses glowed warm with family gatherings, laughter muffled behind windows, the smell of roasting dinners drifting through the air. The roads, though, were empty—just me, my moped, and the occasional lonely car rolling by.
My first few drops went smoothly. A pizza to a family on a cul-de-sac. Indian food to an older couple who insisted I take a generous tip. “Merry Christmas, mate,” the man said, smiling like he meant it. “Stay safe out there.”
I didn’t realize how much I’d remember those words later.
Around 9 p.m., I picked up an order from a busy little takeaway in town—a small bag heading to a place on Ashley Road. An easy run. I zipped along the path, my moped’s headlight slicing through patches of shadow.
That’s when I saw it.
A quad bike. Parked at an angle at the corner of a quiet street. No lights. Engine low and rumbling. Two figures sat on it, both in black hoodies, faces hidden behind scarves. At first I shrugged it off—teenagers messing around, probably bored on Christmas night. But as I passed, I felt their eyes follow me.
I turned onto Ashley Road, and seconds later, their engine growled to life behind me.
I looked in my mirror.
They were following.
Not close enough to seem obvious, not far enough to be accidental. A steady stalk.
I reached the delivery house—a small place with warm lights glowing through the curtains. I parked, grabbed the bag, and knocked. A woman answered immediately, smiling as though she’d been waiting right behind the door.
“Oh, thank you! We totally forgot to order dinner today.” She handed me a tip wrapped in a Christmas card. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I said, trying to sound normal.
But when I stepped back outside, my stomach dropped.
The quad bike had rolled up right behind my moped.
Blocking it.
The two figures stood now—both young, maybe 18 or 19. One had a small mole just under his right lip. It made him look almost innocent, but his eyes were anything but. Cold. Focused. Predatory.
“Hey, you,” the one with the mole called out in a low, sharp voice. “That’s a nice moped. Hand it over.”
I froze, hands instinctively gripping my helmet.
“What? I’m working. This is my bike.”
The second guy stepped forward, cracking his knuckles like he’d been waiting all night for this.
“We said hand it over,” he repeated. “Don’t make us take it.”
My heart hammered. The street was dead quiet. No cars. No people. Just me and two strangers who didn’t care what happened next.
“Look… I don’t want trouble,” I said quietly. “Let me go.”
The one with the mole chuckled—soft, almost amused.
“Trouble? Mate… you’re the one out here alone.”
He lunged and grabbed my arm.
Instinct kicked in. I jerked away and shoved him. Harder than I meant to. He stumbled. I used that half-second to jump onto my moped and slam the key. The engine hesitated—my stomach turned—then finally roared awake.
The second guy swung and clipped my shoulder, sending pain up my neck.
But I tore past them, swerving into the road as they shouted behind me.
I didn’t breathe properly until I was three streets away. Hands shaking, I called support.
“This is driver 4782—I just got attacked on Ashley Road. Two guys on a quad bike tried to steal my moped.”
The operator’s tone changed instantly.
“Oh my God. Are you injured? Stay on the line. We’re alerting the police.”
I pulled over, chest rising and falling too fast. She asked for a description; I gave it—white, late teens, scarves covering most of their faces, one with a mole below his lip.
Then she asked the question that made me hesitate.
“Do you want to end your shift?”
I thought of the bills I still needed to cover.
“No. I’ll finish a couple more.”
I regret those words even now.
My next order was close, just a few blocks over on Epsom Road in Ewell. I convinced myself the danger was behind me.
But the streets on that side felt different—darker, quieter, as if the town itself had stepped away. I kept checking my mirrors, half-expecting to see that quad bike again. Nothing.
The flat above the shop was straightforward. The man answered annoyed, muttered something about delays, grabbed his food, slammed the door.
Whatever—just another delivery.
But when I walked back down the outside stairs, I heard it.
That engine.
Low. Familiar.
My pulse spiked.
The quad bike rolled out of a side alley, lights off, creeping toward me like a predator testing its next move.
“It’s them…” I whispered.
The mole guy pointed at me. “Look who we found again.”
Before I could react, the other guy charged.
“Give us the bike,” he snapped, “or we’ll f***ing make you.”
His fist smashed into my ribs. I gasped and staggered back.
“Leave me alone!” I shouted, jumping onto my moped.
He grabbed the back metal frame and nearly yanked me off.
I twisted the throttle full blast.
The sudden jolt ripped me out of his grip. I shot down the road, weaving between parked cars as their quad bike roared after me. My lungs burned. My eyes stung. A horn blared as I cut in front of a car.
I lost them only after taking a sharp corner into a side lot behind a closed store. I hid there, engine off, chest heaving.
I called support again. My voice shook.
“It’s me again. They found me. Same guys. Epsom Road. They— they punched me, tried to pull me off.”
The operator’s voice dropped to a whisper, like she didn’t want to scare me.
“Police are on the way. Tell me where you are. Stay hidden.”
So I did.
The minutes stretched. Every sound—every shifting leaf, every car in the distance—made me flinch.
Finally, blue lights washed over the pavement. Two officers approached quickly.
“You the delivery driver?” one asked.
I nodded. “Yes. They attacked me twice. Same guys.”
They exchanged a look.
“You’re not the only one tonight,” the officer said. “Another driver reported two young men on a quad bike trying to take his scooter earlier.”
“That was me,” I said. “The first time.”
The officer blinked. “Again? Jesus. Okay—we’re escalating this.”
I wanted to go home. Every part of me wanted to go home.
But the app buzzed.
Another order had already been assigned to me—High Street, Ewell.
The officers urged me to clock out.
But the customer started calling.
“Where’s my food? We’re waiting.”
Stupidly—stupidly—I accepted. The officers agreed to stay close.
We made our way toward High Street—busier, brighter. People walking here and there. It felt safer.
Until it didn’t.
I parked and grabbed the bag. As I turned toward the address, the quad bike shot into the street like it had been launched. The two men leaped off before it fully stopped.
“Third time’s the charm,” the mole guy sneered. “Bike. Phone. Wallet. Now.”
His friend cracked his knuckles again, smiling like this was all a joke.
“You should’ve stayed home tonight.”
I backed up, voice cracking. “Police are right here. Back off!”
They didn’t care.
The mole guy slammed a fist into my chest. The air left my lungs. I staggered and nearly dropped the bag.
“No one’s saving you,” he whispered.
And then—
Sirens.
Shouting.
“STOP! POLICE!”
The men spun around. For the first time all night, I saw fear in their eyes. They bolted to the quad bike and tore off down the alley before the officers could reach them.
The street fell quiet again.
I leaned on the wall, chest aching, breath ragged.
“You alright?” one officer asked.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just… shaken.”
At the station later, the truth became clearer.
I wasn’t the first driver targeted. Or the second. I was the third—within forty minutes.
Three delivery workers. Same area. Same quad bike. Same faces.
The officers suspected they were local boys, high, bored, armed with enough adrenaline and stupidity to ruin someone’s life.
I quit deliveries a few days later.
Even now, every time I hear an engine rumble outside my window, my body tenses. My hands shake. And every Christmas, I think about those two young men on that quad bike—out there somewhere.
And how close they came to taking everything from me.