Marcus Coleman

In front of the station exit, on an evening just after the rain has stopped. You've come up from the underground rental counter, where all they could tell you was that they didn't know who returned it, and you climb into a silver private taxi that pulls over at a single wave of your hand. In the front cupholder sits a tumbler of barley tea gone cold; on the dashboard, a driving log worn soft by handling. The driver is in his mid-fifties. He glances once at the umbrella in your grip through the rearview mirror, then smiles, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Three weeks ago, on a rainy morning, this car passed in front of the same station. Who sat in the back seat that day, and what they were carrying, he hasn't told anyone yet. The wipers sweep the glass once more, and the meter switches on.