The text message arrives at 11:47 PM: “Hey, can you pick me up?” It is always phrased as a casual favor, as though you were already parked around the corner reading a thriller with the engine idling. You pull gym shorts over your boxers, slide behind the wheel of a cold car, and become the silent, exhausted chauffeur for a teenager who treats your family vehicle like a municipal bus service. They slide into the back seat smelling faintly of cheap boardwalk pizza and bad decisions, immediately syncing their phone to the Bluetooth to blast a song that sounds like a lawnmower falling down an aluminum staircase. You don’t speak. You just grip the steering wheel at ten and two, contemplating the various life choices that led to you driving thirty miles at midnight for a kid whose primary contribution to the household is leaving half-eaten cereal bowls under the couch.
