Ok, most of it was story was done on Chat GPT with a several small sections that I wrote for better flow. The story is based on the premise that pantyhose 

cause women's car engines to not start or be extra ornery when women drive them while wearing pantyhose. Hope you all enjoy the story.

Sara (AI): https://imgur.com/a/XGNWeyo 

'82 Mustang (Web) https://imgur.com/a/5pA7VFS 

Cozy Wow Package (Web): https://imgur.com/a/G99tedE 

"'Magic' Pantyhose"

It was past midnight, and the Hooters parking lot sat in a hush, dotted with the fading glimmer of fluorescent lights. Sara's shift had ended, but she lingered. 

Now she wished she hadn’t.

Her breath fogged the inside of her windshield as she turned the key in her aging '82 Mustang.

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Nothing. The engine grumbled but refused to catch.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered, brushing a stray curl behind her ear as she leaned forward, ankle flexing. Her thick beige pantyhose, the kind branded 

Cozy Wow, wrinkled gently around her ankle and shimmered under the dome light. Her white canvas Ked's squeaked slightly on the worn pedal rubber.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She pumped steadily, rhythmically, willing life into the engine.

It was strange. Every one of the girls had been there at some point — car refusing to start if they stayed in uniform, especially the pantyhose. Some joked 

it was the nylon. Others said it was the curse of the double shift.

Sara arched her back slightly, her orange shorts tugging tight across her hips as she adjusted her seat. She tried again.

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She bit her lip, the strain of anticipation making her heart thump. Her whole body moved with the effort: a blend of frustration, routine, and the oddly 

intimate ritual of starting her car.

Her phone buzzed with a message from her ex: “I want to see you.”

She sighed. Maybe it was the pantyhose. Maybe it was fate. But one more try couldn't hurt.

She closed her eyes, foot poised, and gave the pedal another desperate series of pumps. The nylon crinkled softly with each press.

caloomp  caloomp  caloomp

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She ignored her phone.

caloomp  caloomp  caloomp  caloomp

Her pantyhose covered foot bounced with determined rhythm, her soft Cozy Wow 80 denier pantyhose creasing and stretching against her ankle. The 

engine moaned but refused to catch.

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Sara sat back, breath escaping in a huff. She glanced at her watch, frowning. It's late.

She didn’t want him showing up. She hadn’t answered his last three texts for a reason. Their break-up had been messy, like a stalled engine on a cold 

night—stuttering, choking, then dying. She didn’t need that again.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her hips shifted slightly as she settled deeper into the bucket seat, orange shorts riding up just enough to remind her how little coverage they offered. The 

worn vinyl let her slide as she gave the pedal another volley, the sensation of nylon gliding smoothly under her only adding to the tension.

One more try.

She leaned forward, heart pounding. The Mustang groaned.

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Still no spark.

Sara sighed, resting both hands on the wheel. The lot was quiet. Still. Just her, the sound of crickets in the summer air, and the soft crinkling of her 

pantyhose every time she flexed her leg.

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She urged the engine again, voice hushed but firm. “Come on…”

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her leg moved with tired resolve, and the soft friction of the pantyhose had begun to feel - different. Not just warm, not just clingy — but almost aware. 

As if the nylon itself resisted her.

She clenched her jaw. “I should’ve taken them off.”

She imagined herself at her mom’s house already, wrapped in a blanket, sipping lukewarm tea and forgetting this whole night. But instead, here she was 

— stuck, alone, and still in uniform. Still in these pantyhose.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She whispered, barely believing herself, “Come on, pantyhose… please let my car start. Just let me get out of here.”

The moment hung in the air. A pause. The air seemed to grow thicker around her legs, just for a second. She shook the thought away. She turned the 

key again.

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Her foot continued to bounce. The pedal sank a little deeper this time, like the car — or something else — was listening.

A chill ran through her. Her pantyhose suddenly felt tighter around her legs, almost like a gentle squeeze. She looked down. They looked the same — 

beige, soft, worn from a long shift — but it was there: that odd feeling.

Not pain. Not pressure. Just, presence.

She blinked.

“Okay,” she said softly, addressing the empty air. “What are you?”

Caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

The Mustang gave a tired grumble, not quite a start, but different. Hopeful.

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Sara’s heart skipped.

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The starter whirred long and desperate now, the Mustang's big V8 still refusing to catch.

Sara’s phone buzzed again.

“I’m on my way to the restaurant.” Her ex.

Her stomach dropped. “No, no, no…”

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her foot bounced harder now, almost pleading with the machine as she pumped. The pantyhose flexed and slid over her leg like a second skin — warm, 

clinging, defiant. Her white Keds squeaked faintly with each press, the pedal worn soft from so many starts like this.

She braced herself in the seat and twisted the key again, anxiety rising like heat through her chest.

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The engine turned — but didn’t start. Not for her. Not for the soft glide of her body shifting in the seat. Not for the silky drag of pantyhose across vinyl.

Sara’s lips parted, jaw tight with panic. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, her posture now a blend of urgency and helplessness.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, half to herself, half to whatever unspoken force seemed to be playing with her.

All the girls knew. Every single one. They’d laugh about it in the break room between shifts, whispering about how pantyhose seemed to mess with their 

cars, how engines just didn’t want to start for a hot woman wearing pantyhose.

Sara never really believed it. Until recently. She noticed her car had become increasingly harder to start when she wore pantyhose. 

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She twisted the key again, muscles tensed.

If her ex pulled in while she was still here, still dressed like this, still stranded — she didn’t even want to think about it.

“Please,” she whispered to the engine. “Just let me go.”

“Please, pantyhose… let my engine start,” she whispered, eyes closed, leg bouncing.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She turned the key again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr--Pritt-pritt-pritt—VROOOMMMM.

The Mustang sputtered to life — rough, uneven, but running. Sara’s eyes widened. Relief poured through her as she threw it into gear and pulled out of 

the Hooters parking lot, tires chirping slightly on the hot asphalt.

“Thank you,” she whispered, not sure who — or what — she was thanking anymore.

She didn’t take the main road. No way. She ducked through a string of backstreets, weaving between dark, sleepy neighborhoods, hoping she could avoid 

any chance of her ex seeing her drive away in this state — still in her uniform, still in her damn pantyhose.

The engine idled with an uneasy rhythm as she rolled up to a quiet stop sign.

pritt-pritt-pritt… pritt… pritt…

—boink.

A hollow thump. The engine hiccupped and died.

Sara’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She shifted into park and twisted the key.

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Her foot dropped again.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She groaned aloud, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel. “Why does this always happen in pantyhose? What do you want from me?”

Her thighs flexed as she shifted in the seat, legs still shimmering with the faint beige glow of the Cozy Wow pantyhose. The seat creaked. Her Ked's 

slipped a little as she pumped again, the nylon around her ankles crinkling with each desperate jab.

She tried again.

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The engine wouldn’t start. The silence of the back street felt heavy. Oppressive.

Sara sat back, chest rising and falling, mind racing. Her ex was still nearby. Maybe even looking for her. And now she was stranded — again. With nothing 

but a low tank of gas, a dead engine, and a curse she still didn’t understand.

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The Mustang's starter dragged on and on, the headlights flickering and dimming until the road ahead was barely lit. The pale beams cast eerie shadows 

against the stop sign and empty sidewalks — silent, still, like everything had stopped with her.

Sara gritted her teeth. She wished she’d risked it — just rolled through that stop sign. The street had looked empty at the time. But what if she hadn’t 

stopped? What if she’d pulled straight into her ex’s headlights?

She shivered at the thought.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her pantyhose-clad foot worked furiously, the pedal giving with each press, sending soft creaks through the cabin. Her pantyhose glided smoothly, almost 

mockingly, against her warm skin as she moved in the seat — frustrated, helpless.

She glanced around.

The intersection was swallowed in blackness. No cars. No streetlights. Just her dimming headlights fighting off the dark, flickering weakly every time she 

twisted the key.

Her voice cracked in a whisper. “Please… I just want to go.”

Nothing replied. Just the quiet static of the night.

She gave the gas pedal one more volley — fast, pleading, almost frantic.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

The nylon crinkled sharply now, as if the pantyhose themselves were tensing. Or resisting. Or - listening.

Sara shut her eyes and turned the key again.

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The engine turned, but it was as if the car was being held back.

Sara froze.

A soft click echoed faintly behind her — like a door shutting, or something lighter. Distant. Too far away to be from any house she could see. And yet - 

close enough to stir her nerves.

Sara’s head snapped toward the sound. The dark street behind her stretched endlessly. Nothing. No movement. No footsteps. Just the light from her 

headlights.

She waited, breath held, eyes scanning for any sign of motion.

Nothing.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her foot moved almost automatically now, rhythmically bouncing on the pedal. A strange comfort in the repetition. The pantyhose whispered across her 

skin, cool and tight, like a reminder she couldn’t shake.

She sat back in the seat, heart racing. What else can I do?

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Walking crossed her mind — but where would she even go? Her mom’s place was too far. No stores nearby. Just shadows and sleeping houses. No 

sidewalks. No streetlights. Just endless black beyond the reach of her headlights.

She imagined herself walking down the center of the street, still in her orange shorts, still in these cursed pantyhose, still hopelessly stranded — hoping a 

porch light might save her. It made her stomach twist.

She stayed.

What else was there?

The keys rattled in her fingers again. She twisted them.

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Nothing. Not even a cough now. Just the heavy drag of the starter, the car resisting her again.

The Mustang sat stubborn and still, as if it had fused to the street beneath it.

Sara sagged in her seat, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The pedal remained firm under her foot.

Caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

She didn’t cry. Not yet. Just breathed. Thought.

Maybe this wasn’t about the engine.

Maybe it never was.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr—pritt-pritt-pritt—VROOOMMMM.

The engine finally caught — barely. It stuttered, uneven, as though waking reluctantly from a deep, unwilling sleep. The Mustang trembled beneath her, 

headlights fluttering — dimming, then flaring bright — as if the vehicle was gasping for breath.

Sara’s chest rose with cautious hope. She gripped the wheel and pulled away from the stop sign.

The street rolled past her in patchy darkness, thick silence pressing in from every side. She turned at the next intersection, then another, hunting for 

light—anywhere that wasn’t shrouded in shadow.

But the glow of neighborhoods fell behind her. Trees thinned. Concrete gave way to empty gravel lots and silent warehouses. The pavement felt rougher 

here. Forgotten. Like even the road had been left behind.

prrrrt—prrrrp—bup—bup—bup—putt—knock-knock—boink.

The Mustang lurched and coughed like it had swallowed something wrong. Sara’s fingers tightened on the wheel.

“No. No, no, no—”

But it was too late.

The car gave one last tired boink and rolled to a halt at the edge of a dark, vacant lot — open land, no houses, no buildings close by. Just empty silence 

and dry, cracked pavement under the faded moon.

She was alone.

Again.

She twisted the key.

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It was like the engine didn’t even try this time — just moaned and resisted. The headlights stayed dim. The pedal felt heavier.

Sara let her head fall back against the seat. A breeze rattled dry weeds nearby. There were no sounds of cars, no barking dogs, no distant televisions 

glowing behind windows. No windows at all.

Just her.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

The soft, gliding rhythm of her foot echoed in the cabin like a clock ticking in a tomb.

She whispered, to no one in particular, “Why here?”

The nylon around her legs shimmered faintly in the low light, unmoved by the question. Her Keds creaked against the pedal. The silence outside felt total. 

Not peaceful — empty.

Sara didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t check.

All she knew was that she wasn’t home, and her car didn’t want her to be.

She sat still for a moment, staring through the dim windshield at the nothingness ahead of her. The Mustang was dark now, the dash lights soft and low, 

the air thick with that quiet engine heat.

Why is this happening?

Her mind wandered — back to a morning a couple of weeks ago. The sun had been high, her mood light. She remembered choosing her favorite pair of 

tight, faded jeans — the ones that fit like memory foam, always honest, never forgiving. She’d indulged all week before: pastries, late-night takeout, no regrets.

The jeans protested.

So she’d pulled on a pair of nude No Nonsense pantyhose first. They smoothed everything just enough. The jeans slid over her hips with a slow, snug 

stretch, molding to every curve. Satisfied, she slipped into red espadrille wedges and headed out.

The car gave her trouble, as usual. But she’d coaxed the engine awake, with just a little gentle gas pedal persuasion.

She’d made it to the café.

But after a long, dreamy hour sipping coffee and people-watching — when it came time to leave— of course the Mustang wouldn’t start. Not even a cough.

Frustrated but used to it, she popped the hood and stood there, hands on hips, pretending she knew what she was doing.

Then he appeared.

Tall. Handsome. Curious. With a smile like warm espresso and a polite, earnest tone. He offered to help, and she let him. He carefully checked the spark 

plug wires and coil connection, clearly trying to seem helpful, not intrusive.

But he kept glancing at her.

No — not at her.

At her foot.

She noticed the way his eyes lingered as she pumped the gas pedal, slow and steady, her pantyhose catching the light as they flexed. His gaze locked 

there. His hands hesitated. And, yes — she thought she noticed a distinct bulge forming in his pocket.

He said nothing about it. Neither did she.

Eventually, the car started — as if it had decided the moment was over.

But ever since that day, the engine had grown more unpredictable. Slower to respond. More selective.

And always when she wore pantyhose.

Now, back in the darkness, alone in the void of vacant lots and silence, Sara felt the weight of that memory like a strange, soft pressure across her thighs.

 As if the pantyhose remembered too.

Caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her foot moved steadily again, working the pedal with the same rhythm she’d used a dozen times before. The nylon slid over her skin, tight and quiet, 

whispering against the fabric of her shorts.

She closed her eyes. Twisted the key.

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“Come on,” she breathed. “Start.”

But the engine only groaned, unwilling. It was like she was locked in some loop of silk and steel — her car and her clothes conspiring to keep her trapped.

She looked out again. Not a single sign of life. No lights. No sound. Just the tick of cooling metal and her own breath in the dark.

The Mustang sat heavy and silent, the cooling engine ticking softly beneath the hood. The only sound was the soft creak of the driver’s seat as Sara shifted, 

lost in thought.

Her fingers had wandered without her noticing — gliding slowly down her thigh, over the smooth, warm surface of her pantyhose. She rubbed absently at 

the pantyhose, the texture strangely comforting. Familiar. Her mind drifted back again.

The coffee shop. The wedge heels. The snug denim. And him.

He’d seemed so kind, so attentive — but not in the usual way. He hadn’t asked her out, hadn’t flirted outright. But his eyes told a story every time she 

turned the key or pumped the pedal. He had been watching her move. Watching the pantyhose, the way her foot flexed, the delicate tension of nylon 

across skin.

And what had she said? Nothing. Not even a thank-you.

She ran her hand down her leg again. Slowly.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her foot kept pressing rhythmically, the nylon brushing and creasing gently around her ankle with each pump. The gesture had become second nature, l

ike a heartbeat.

She realized she didn’t even remember driving away that day. Only that the engine finally let her go. Like it had been waiting for her to notice something 

— or someone.

Her brows furrowed.

Why didn't I give him my number?

Was it distraction? Or did some part of her understand, even then, that this was - something else? Something quietly pulling at her from beneath the 

surface of normal life?

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She twisted the key again, voice soft. “Just start.”

But the engine only offered its usual resistance.

The headlights flickered. The Mustang rocked faintly with the strain, but it didn’t start.

Sara’s hand drifted once more across her thigh. Not absent-minded this time. Just wondering.

She stared through the windshield into the dark, at the stillness of the vacant lots and the endless stretch of shadowed asphalt ahead.

She was alone. Completely.

But it didn’t feel like nothing was out there.

A breeze picked up — gentle at first, then cool against her skin where the pantyhose ended. It whispered around the corners of the Mustang, rustling 

something dry in the distance. Sara’s head lifted, eyes scanning the blackness.

Then she heard it.

A low, irregular thunk… then another… dragging across gravel. Dull. Hollow. Getting closer.

Her chest tightened.

She twisted the key without thinking.

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The engine groaned.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her foot moved, quick, frantic. Her pantyhose creased at her ankle and stretched tight across her flexing thigh. The gas pedal answered her in its same 

soft, stubborn way.

But the thunking continued.

Closer now. Uneven. Like footsteps. But wrong.

She froze.

Another thunk. Then silence.

Her voice trembled as she whispered — not to the car, not to herself, but to her pantyhose, absurd as it was. “Please… please just start. Please, let me go.”

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Still nothing.

The sound resumed — faster now. Sara gripped the wheel with one hand and reached toward the door lock with the other, every muscle on edge.

Then, as if dropped from above, the sound suddenly shifted.

THUNK… thunk… thunk… thunk…

And rolled past the Mustang with a strange, anticlimactic clatter.

Sara blinked, leaned forward — and saw it.

An empty gallon jug — scuffed, bleached by the sun — bouncing lazily across the cracked asphalt under the wind’s gentle push.

Her body sagged in her seat. A long, trembling breath escaped her.

Her heartbeat still thudded in her ears, but the threat was gone. Her legs loosened, the tightness in her shoulders uncoiling just a little.

She let out a low, shaky laugh — half relief, half exhaustion.

“It’s just a jug… God.”

Outside, the breeze calmed. The lot returned to silence.

Inside, her pantyhose-covered foot continued to bounce.

Caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

The car hadn’t started. She was still stranded. But for the moment, at least, she wasn’t running from anything.

Just, waiting.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr—pritt—pritt—rrrr-rrrr—pritt-pritt-pritt—VROOOMMMM!

The Mustang shuddered, then came to life — smooth this time. Like nothing had happened. Like the car hadn’t just refused her again and again for 

nearly an hour.

The headlights swelled with the idle — brightening the lot like a stage light, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement and that now-motionless 

plastic jug near the curb.

Sara didn’t wait.

She grabbed the shifter, dropped it into Drive, and floored it.

“Come on!”

VRROOOMP!

The engine roared.

But not for long.

Putt—putt—putt—

The power vanished almost instantly, the Mustang stuttering forward a few yards and then coughing, choking.

Putt—putt—putt—putt—putt…

Then silence.

The headlights dimmed again. The dashboard lights faded to a glow. The gearshift felt heavy in her hand.

She dropped her head back onto the headrest and let out a long, primal groan.

“Seriously?!”

She slapped the shifter back into Park and twisted the key again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr…

Her foot returned to the gas pedal automatically, the worn rubber soft under her Ked's. The pantyhose creaked softly as her leg moved.

caloomp caloomp caloomp.

The sound was soft, repetitive. Almost soothing. But not to her. Not anymore.

This was madness.

Her foot moved faster.

caloomp caloomp caloomp.

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The car was taunting her. Or the pantyhose were. Or both. Sara didn’t know anymore.

“Why do you hate me?” she muttered — half to the car, half to her own reflection in the rearview mirror. “What do you want?”

The engine wheezed. Refused.

Her hand stayed on the key. Her foot stayed on the gas. Her legs tingled under the nylon, her nerves crawling just beneath the skin.

Out there, the night pressed in around her again — quiet, watchful, patient.

She was alone.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Sara exhaled slowly and reached for the headlight switch.

Click.

The lights blinked off. The lot dropped into blackness.

Total darkness swallowed her. The silence returned, deeper than before — like someone had closed a door behind her. Even the hum of the Mustang’s 

failed attempt to run seemed distant now, just a memory.

Then she noticed it.

The sky was overcast, moonlight veiled. The only light came faintly from distant buildings, barely enough to give shape to the world. Her eyes strained 

against the dark.

Her nerves tingled in her chest. Not from the cold.

She turned to check her mirrors.

And there — dim but unmistakable — movement. A tall silhouette. A man. Walking slowly down the middle of the street, about a block behind her.

Not running. Not stumbling. Just, walking. Purposefully.

Straight toward her.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Had he heard her earlier? The engine struggling? Her cursing? The stuttered roar before it died?

Every instinct screamed a different answer. Start the car. No, stay still. Hide. Run. But where?

She sat motionless, breath shallow.

The man was still coming. No flashlight. No phone. Just walking in the dark, like it was normal. Like he belonged to the night.

Sara’s hand drifted to her thigh again, fingers pressing into the pantyhose, grounding her. It wasn’t comfort now — it was reflex. A strange habit in moments 

of fear, like wrapping yourself in something soft while the world turns sharp.

She closed her eyes for just one second.

Think, Sara. Think.

Then she moved.

Quickly.

She twisted the key — one more chance.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

She pumped the pedal steadily.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Her eyes stayed on the mirror. The silhouette was closer now. Still walking.

Sara whispered, teeth clenched, “Please… come on, just this once.”

The man was a half-block away.

She acted in her best interest.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr--pritt-pritt-pritt-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr--pritt-Pritt-PRITT--VROOOMMMM!

The Mustang roared to life, engine coughing before settling into a low, uneven idle. The headlights remained off — but the dash flickered back to life. She 

didn’t wait. Shifted into Drive, slammed the pedal.

Vrrrooomp!

The car jumped forward. Tires chirped. Her seat pressed into her back.

She didn’t dare look back until she was halfway down the next block.

When she did, the street behind her was empty.

The man was gone.

The road under her wheels had changed without warning — gravel at first, then something softer, muted. Uneven.

The car’s rhythm shifted with it. The low hum of asphalt gave way to a grinding crunch, then a muffled thud beneath the tires. It felt… wrong.

Sara’s foot moved to the brake instinctively, slowing the Mustang to a controlled stop.

She sat still, engine idling low, her breath shallow.

Where am I?

She switched on the headlights.

Twin beams flared forward — and revealed the truth.

The pavement had ended completely. The gravel had faded into loose, dry earth. Before her stretched an empty field — patches of grass, clumps of weeds, 

and ruts where rain had long ago carved lines into the ground. No signs. No fences. No lights.

Just open space, and behind it… nothing she recognized.

Sara exhaled shakily. “I could’ve crashed into a ditch out here…”

She let herself breathe. Just for a moment. Just long enough to acknowledge the narrow escape.

Then she scanned the field again.

Quiet. Still. No sign of that man. No buildings. No familiar street signs. Just the Mustang’s rumbling idle and the occasional rustle of grass in the breeze.

Time to go.

She reached for the shifter and pulled it into Reverse, then gently pressed the gas.

The car rocked… but didn’t move.

Sara blinked.

She pressed the pedal again — more firmly this time. The engine responded with a low growl and the tires kicked slightly, but the Mustang rolled forward 

instead of back.

What—?

She eased off and tried again, foot more deliberate.

This time the rear wheels caught, spun briefly — and the car jerked backward maybe two feet. Then stopped.

A slow roar built beneath her. The tires churned. She felt vibration rise through the seat as if the car were pushing against something unseen.

Sara looked around. No slope. No obstruction. But the sense of traction was all wrong. The rear wheels were acting like they were buried deeper than they 

should’ve been.

“Am I stuck?”

She opened her door slightly and looked out.

The rear tires were sunk just slightly into the soft dirt — nothing dramatic. But the earth was loose, fine and dry, like talcum. She must’ve backed into a 

patch of it. The kind of ground that gave way under pressure.

She shut the door slowly, eyes scanning the dark.

Nothing looked familiar.

No buildings. No traffic. No lights. Just her own faint tire tracks stretching out behind her and vanishing into blackness.

Her throat tightened.

She pressed the gas gently again.

Vrrooom...

The car strained in reverse, but barely moved. Like something under the surface had hold of her.

Sara looked out the windshield, then into the mirror. All directions led to shadows.

She had no idea where she was now.

<<<<<  AUTHOR WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sarah checked her phone. No signal here. She turned the flashlight on and got out of the car carefully and looked around briefly. It looked like if she could 

roll forward she could turn around and drive straight back to the road and the hopefully make her way back home where she lived with her mother. Sara 

got into the car and shifted into drive and applied gentle pressure on the gas pedal. The Mustang eased forward and sway slightly as Sara carefully looked 

around trying to avoid any ruts or obvious hazards. Fortunately, the land was fairly flat, dry, and free of debris. The road ahead came back into view.

<<<<<  AI WRITTEN  >>>>

The Mustang jolted unexpectedly as it rolled through a depression, the suspension flexing with a low metallic clunk. Sara's body swayed with the motion, 

one hand gripping the wheel while the other braced against the seat. She kept gentle pressure on the gas pedal, trying to push through it — but something 

was wrong.

The car rolled forward only a few feet more… then stopped.

Dead still.

Sara blinked.

She applied more pressure to the gas pedal. The pedal gave its familiar resistance under her foot, but nothing happened. The engine had gone silent.

She looked down. All the dashboard lights were faintly glowing, not fully lit, as though the Mustang had one foot in the grave.

She groaned and slumped slightly in the seat. Her Cozy Wow pantyhose stretched with her motion, the fabric smooth and warm against her skin. A comfort 

amid the frustration.

She reached out, shifted into Park, and turned the key.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The sound echoed into the empty field like a weak radio signal trying to reach someone who wasn’t listening.

Sara twisted the key again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Still no spark. Just the hollow, dry rhythm of a big V8 engine that wanted nothing to do with her.

She stared out at the gravel road ahead. It was right there. Just a few yards. Taunting her. Home was beyond that. Her mom. Her warm bed. The normal 

world.

She placed a hand on her pantyhose-clad thigh, rubbing slowly. Not out of impulse this time, but to ground herself — to remind herself she was still here, 

still capable of thinking. Of deciding what came next.

Sara’s thoughts drifted again. The field. The strange dead spot in the middle of nowhere. No signal. No help. No landmarks. Just her and this car that had 

always acted up the moment pantyhose came into play.

It didn’t make sense.

But she couldn’t deny the pattern. Her heart pounded as she eyed the key again.

One more try.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The night around her stayed still. No wind. No sound. No help.

Just her.

And the stubborn rhythm of a story that didn’t want to end.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The dry crank echoed again, louder somehow in the open dark.

Sara let go of the key slowly, her hand trembling slightly.

She exhaled, and her breath fogged faintly on the windshield. The air was cooling fast. Everything around her felt like it was winding down — except the 

pressure building in her chest.

She stared ahead at the gravel road, then down at her legs.

The pantyhose.

Smooth, beige, still warm against her skin. Cozy Wow brand. She remembered when she bought them — on a whim. They were soft and oddly durable, 

with a little shimmer under harsh light. Too comfortable, almost. They hugged her like a second skin, and had slid under her Hooters shorts so easily it 

felt like cheating the dress code.

But every time she wore pantyhose — every single time — something weird happened with her car.

Why?

The thought pressed harder now. It wasn’t just coincidence. Too many nights like this. False starts. Engines that sputtered and stalled. Always when she 

was wearing them. Never when she wasn’t.

Her eyes narrowed.

She rubbed the pantyhose slowly, thoughtfully this time. Her fingers traced the smoothness, and the fabric responded with its faint whispery sound. Familiar. 

Comforting. But also suspicious.

What are you doing to me?

She didn’t even know who she was addressing — the car, the pantyhose, herself. But the silence didn’t offer any answers. Just more stillness.

Sara leaned forward and rested her forehead on the wheel. Her pulse thumped in her ears.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I get it. This is weird.”

She sat back and turned her head slowly to look behind her — half expecting someone to be walking up the field again.

But there was nothing.

Just the soft, slow hush of night.

She thought of her ex. The idea of him pulling up right now used to feel like a disaster. But now… she wouldn’t even mind. At least he was real. At least 

he knew her car.

At least he might see her stuck here, caught between gravel and nowhere, wearing the very thing that seemed to be part of the problem.

Sara bit her lip and reached for the key one more time.

She whispered without thinking: “Please… just start. I’ll take them off. I swear.”

Then—

caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

<<<<<  AUTHOR WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sara inhaled deeply, held the breath for a few moments and then released it. The thought finally dawned on her. It was dark and no one was around. She 

could slip her shoes and shorts off and then slide her pantyhose off and replace her shorts and sneakers. She looked around and saw no one. She strained 

to remove each sneaker, then she twisted and contorted herself as she slid her shorts off big round hips and butt. She forgot that she wasn’t wearing panties. 

Suddenly she saw a silhouette move ahead of her on the road again. Was it the same guy again? She felt like she needed to get out of there again. 

<<<<<  AI WRITTEN  >>>>>

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

Sara's bare foot pumped rapidly, her pantyhose catching slightly on the worn pedal. She barely registered the familiar, soft sound anymore — it was 

background noise to her rising panic.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The crank dragged on, dry and hollow.

Then — movement.

A shape, faint but definite, shifted across the road up ahead. Not close, but close enough.

Her hands froze on the key.

The silhouette disappeared as quickly as it came. No clear details. Just motion and the undeniable sense of being watched — or followed.

Sara's chest tightened. Her shorts were bunched on the passenger seat. Her shoes were half - kicked under the dash. Her heart thumped harder.

She looked to the left. Then to the right. Still alone.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice shaky.

She didn't finish changing. There wasn’t time. Every instinct in her told her she needed to move, and fast. Her mind ran wild with possibilities — maybe 

it was the same man, maybe not. Maybe someone else entirely. But why would anyone be walking this road, this far from anything?

She twisted the key again.

Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-pritt-pritt-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

A weak cough from the engine. She gave the pedal another firm volley.

caloomp caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr—pritt—pritt—vrrrrrooommmm!

The engine stuttered, caught, and came to life.

Headlights flared as Sara threw the Mustang into gear. Still barefoot, still breathless, she pressed the gas — and the car responded.

Gravel kicked up as the wheels turned.

She didn’t look back.

<<<<<  AUTHOR WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sara fought the urge to drop the car into gear and floor the gas and risk flooding the engine and stalling, or worse, getting hopelessly stuck and then not 

being able to start her car. Instead, she eased the shifter into Drive and gently applied gentle, steady pressure on the gas pedal. The car slid sideways a 

little bit and then straightened out.

<<<<<  AI WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sara's breath caught in her throat as the Mustang's rear tires slipped once more on the loose dirt. But she didn’t panic — she eased up just slightly on the 

pedal and felt the tires grip. The car straightened out and rolled forward with a soft bump as it transitioned back onto the uneven edge of the gravel road.

Her headlights washed across the man again.

It was the same guy. Same steady gait. Same relaxed posture. He didn’t appear startled by the sudden glare of headlights, didn’t flinch or raise a hand to 

shield his eyes. He just kept walking at the same pace — calm, casual, like this was completely normal.

Sara slowed as she passed him, her foot hovering over the brake — but she didn’t stop.

The man gave her a small nod. Not threatening. Not friendly either. Just… there.

She nodded back automatically, unsure what else to do. Her heart still beat fast in her chest. The engine idled smooth and low, like nothing was wrong. 

The moment felt oddly suspended — like the kind of scene that sticks in your memory without ever making sense.

What was he doing out here?

Where was “here,” exactly?

There were no streetlights. No buildings. No signs. She had driven further than she thought, chasing the road out of desperation. She turned her eyes 

back to the road ahead. Empty. Featureless. But at least it was solid ground under her tires.

She pressed gently on the gas and let the Mustang pull her forward, leaving the man behind in her mirrors, swallowed again by darkness.

The quiet of the car returned, and so did her thoughts. She couldn’t ignore it anymore— the pattern. The strange difficulty starting her car only when she 

was wearing pantyhose. The moments where the engine seemed to respond to her mood… or maybe her body. The phantom stillness. The unpredictable 

stalls.

It was nonsense. It had to be.

But… she’d been driving this car for years. And this didn’t start happening until recently.

Until she began working at Hooter's and when she wore pantyhose away from work, like at the coffee shop.

Sara adjusted her butt in the seat slightly, feeling the nylon glide over the surface. The soft tension of the fabric around her thighs. She exhaled.

“Okay,” she whispered. “This is insane.”

But she kept driving.

<<<<<  AUTHOR WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sara made her way to an illuminated stretch of road. She glanced down at the shorts on the passenger seat but didn't think much of them since she would 

be back home at her mom's house in about 10 minutes. Although there wasn't any vehicular traffic at the well-lit intersection, except for the car in front of 

her at the stop light, there were some clusters of people on the sidewalks hanging out in front of a bar on one side and a pool hall catacorner. Sara was 

relieved that she had picked a thick pair of pantyhose to wear today. pritt-pritt--pritt--knock-knock--prump--pfft.

<<<<<  AI WRITTEN  >>>>>

Sara’s breath caught again. “No, no, no…” she muttered under her breath, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

She twisted the key.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Behind her, no one - yet. The street seemed to pause. The clusters of people across the way went on laughing and talking, oblivious — or pretending not 

to notice. A few heads turned, but no one stepped forward to help. Her car had just become part of the scenery, an inconvenient curiosity. She could feel 

the weight of eyes — not hostile, just… watching. Waiting.

The light turned green silently ahead of her, and Sara sat frozen.

No engine rumble.

No comforting vibration through the floorboards.

Just silence.

Then came the distant chatter and laughter from the bar across the intersection. A burst of pool hall music drifted out on the summer air. Neon buzzed in 

the corner of her vision. The world had life again… just not her car.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Sara’s foot worked the gas steadily.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

“Come on,” she whispered, her voice caught between pleading and panic.

The car in front of her turned left and disappeared. Someone on the sidewalk pointed in her direction. Another nudged a friend, and both laughed — not 

cruelly, just amused. She could feel eyes on her now. Nothing aggressive. But the glow of streetlights revealed her fully: bare legs, save for her thick beige 

Cozy Wow pantyhose. Shorts in the seat beside her. Sneakers still off, laying on the floor mat. A woman stranded mid-town in pantyhose and a stalled engine.

A wave of heat flushed up her chest.

Why now?

Why here?

This had gone past inconvenience. It was like something… was aware. Like the pantyhose themselves were participating in the car’s refusal to obey. 

She felt silly for even thinking it — but it lined up too perfectly, again and again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

She let the key go and leaned back, breathing hard, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. No one behind her still - great. That was a blessing. She didn’t 

want to block traffic and become a sideshow.

She shifted into Neutral. Caloomp caloomp caloomp. Back to Park. Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Nothing.

The light turned red again.

She looked to her right — an older man leaned against the bar’s brick wall, watching her plainly now. A woman in a striped dress elbowed him and said 

something, laughing. It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t comforting either. Sara was on display, stuck in the spotlight of a well-lit intersection with a dead engine 

and nothing but thick pantyhose and nerves between her and a breakdown.

“Please,” she whispered again. “Just… not here.”

She rubbed her legs instinctively, fingers brushing over the smooth, textured weave of the pantyhose as if an apology might earn her car’s forgiveness.

Then she gritted her teeth, adjusted her grip on the wheel, and twisted the key again.

Sara sat up straighter and gave the gas pedal a few careful pumps.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

She didn’t even think about it anymore; her body just did it, like muscle memory.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-pritt-pritt-pritt-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The Mustang coughed once. The headlights dimmed. She held her breath, praying it wouldn’t stall completely in the middle of a brightly lit intersection, 

pantyhose gleaming under the streetlights.

She glanced down at the shorts again. Right there. Inches away. But taking the time to put them on now would mean crawling into the back seat or 

opening the door — neither of which seemed wise in this spotlight of this intersection.

She didn't feel exposed exactly — but she was keenly aware of the soft stretch of her pantyhose, how her thighs pressed against the warm vinyl of the 

seat. The sensation reminded her again just how far from ordinary the night had gone.

“Please,” she whispered again. “Just let me get through this light.”

She twisted the key again, a little longer this time.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr--rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-pritt-pritt-pritt—vrroommmmm.

It caught.

The engine wasn’t smooth, but it was alive. Her heart surged with it. She shifted into Drive and rolled forward, eyes flicking to both sidewalks, not looking 

too long at anyone.

No catcalls. No shouts. Just the moment.

As she cleared the intersection, the street dipped into quiet again. Her shoulders dropped. Only now did she realize how tense they’d been.

Ten more minutes. Just ten.

Sara flicked her turn signal on. The ticking sound felt louder than it should’ve. She was about to turn left at the next light — the last major intersection 

before the quieter side streets that led home.

The Mustang coasted into the left turning lane. The light was red, but she didn’t mind waiting. She could almost see the edge of her neighborhood from 

here. Just a few more blocks.

She sat still. The engine muttered along, unsteady but holding. The pantyhose brushed softly as she shifted in the seat again, the fabric warm from her 

body, the cabin air still faintly holding the scent of fryer oil, citrus body spray, and the fabric softener from her uniform. A blend she knew all too well.

Then—

Prump—pritt—knock—pup—pritt—... pfft

The engine sighed and died.

Sara blinked. She tried to keep her breathing calm, but her hand was already moving—shifter into Park. She twisted the key.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Nothing.

She paused, foot poised over the gas pedal. She gave a careful, steady pump.

caloomp  caloomp  caloomp

Then she tried again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Cars began lining up behind her. The turning arrow blinked green. No one honked yet, but she could feel the pressure growing like a hand tightening 

around her ribs. The arrow blinked off. The next cycle began. Still she sat there, motionless.

A figure walked into the crosswalk ahead, laughing with someone else, holding a burrito in foil. A woman at the bus stop glanced at Sara’s car and looked 

away again.

She tried again.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

Why now?

She looked to her right — another car had pulled up, windows down, music leaking out. A guy in a hoodie leaned forward and glanced her way briefly. 

Then back at his phone.

Her heart hammered.

She reached down for her orange shorts — still on the seat — but paused. It didn’t matter. Not right now. The real problem was under the hood. Or... under 

her? She had the thought again: Is it really the pantyhose?

Another cycle passed. Still no honks. But now they were watching. A few cars pulled out of the line and swerved back into the next lane to get around her. 

She could feel the isolation again — not just the engine failure, but how vulnerable it felt to be stuck like this in the middle of town. Visible. Helpless. Suspended.

One more try.

caloomp caloomp caloomp

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

She whispered, not sure to who — or what. “Please… not now.”

Sara exhaled slowly through her nose and glanced around. The turning arrow had come and gone again. The night had moved on without her.

She twisted the key once more.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

A soft knock on her window startled her.

She jerked in her seat and looked up. A woman — mid-thirties maybe, in a denim jacket — stood beside the driver’s side window. She looked concerned 

but kind. Sara hesitated, then cracked the window.

“You okay?” the woman asked, her voice over the hum of other engines.

“I… yeah. Just… it won’t start.”

The woman nodded, glancing down the turning lane. “Looks like people are getting twitchy back there. Want help pushing it into that little lot?” She pointed 

across the intersection where a small, empty gravel pull-off sat in the shadows near a closed nail salon.

Sara hesitated. She looked down at her bare legs, then at her orange shorts on the seat. “Just… give me a sec,” she said.

The woman nodded. “I’ll wait right here.”

Sara quickly pulled the shorts over the pantyhose — not caring if they twisted or clung wrong. She shoved her feet back into her sneakers, eyes darting 

between each step and the woman waiting outside. Her hands shook slightly as she opened the door.

The two of them pushed. The car creaked and rolled reluctantly at first, then gave in to gravity and drifted the last few feet into the pull-off. Sara slid back 

into the driver’s seat and tugged the shifter into Park.

The woman leaned down. “You gonna call someone?”

Sara nodded, even though her phone still showed No Signal. “Yeah… yeah, I will. Thank you.”

The woman gave her a sympathetic smile. “Rough night, huh?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

The woman gave a soft knock on the roof and walked off into the night, disappearing around the corner.

Sara sat alone again.

Her breath fogged the inside of the windshield faintly now. The engine was cold. The air quiet.

She put her hands back on the wheel, then reached down—resting one hand on her thigh. The pantyhose were warm again. So familiar. So strange.

She stared straight ahead and whispered to the empty night: “What are you doing to me?”

She turned the key again.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr

The engine didn’t start. The key sat in its final position. Nothing moved except the needle on the dash dropping back to zero.

Sara dropped her hands into her lap and stared at the dashboard.

She wasn’t scared anymore. Not really. She was tired. Not just physically—though her legs ached from the repeated motion, and her shoulders felt 

welded to her neck—but somewhere deeper. A tiredness that didn't come from a long shift or a stubborn engine, but from pretending this wasn’t happening 

over and over again.

The last few weeks had been more than coincidence. That flicker of hesitation before turning the key. That weird static in her thoughts when she didn’t take 

the pantyhose off. The fact that it always happened when she left work too quickly—still in uniform, still caught between versions of herself.

It wasn’t just about the car anymore. It wasn’t even about the pantyhose, not really.

It was about something deeper. A refusal to stop. A refusal to rest. She was always rushing—from shift to obligation to memory to regret. She never wanted 

to sit still. Not with herself. Not with her own thoughts.

She reached for her phone. Still no signal.

She laughed. Just once—short, dry, a little bitter.

No one was coming. No one was tracking her or watching her or even wondering where she was. Not her ex. Not the stranger. Not her mom.

Just silence.

Sara leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

And for the first time all night—maybe in weeks—she let herself stop. Fully stop.

Not to fix the problem.

Not to brace for impact.

Not to plead with the engine.

Just… stop.

A breeze moved across the parking lot again. It brushed against the car. It wasn’t ominous this time. Just quiet.

Something shifted inside her. She didn't know what it meant yet. But it was the first honest breath she'd taken in a long time.

Then, she shut everything down — lights, radio, heater. One last chance. Maybe not just for the engine. For herself, too.

She twisted the key.

rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr—pritt-pritt—rrrr—pritt—VRROOOOMMMM.

It started.

Her eyes widened. The tach needle hovered. The idle was rough, unsteady, but the engine held.

She didn’t give it time to reconsider. Sara slipped the shifter into Drive and gently eased onto the gas. The car jerked forward — like it had second thoughts 

 —but it rolled.

She didn’t floor it. She just kept moving. One block. Then another.

A shiver ran through her legs as the cool air in the footwell caught her skin where her shorts still weren’t. She didn’t care. She didn’t look down. The pantyhose 

were still on. But the car moved. And she was in control again, if only barely.

The town dimmed behind her. Her neighborhood glowed faintly ahead.

Sara didn’t let herself relax until she pulled onto her mother’s quiet street, eased into the gravel driveway, and shut off the engine.

She sat in the silence. Not triumphant. Not defeated.

Just there.

Alone. But home.