The man behind the wheel looked to be about thirty-five. He wore a wrinkled white shirt, his tie loosened as if it were choking him, and his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. But that wasn’t what stopped Carmen’s heart. It was his eyes. Dark, bloodshot eyes that screamed a silent, terrifying despair. And then she saw it. A thin white scar on his left temple.
Time stood still. The noise of the highway traffic disappeared. Carmen felt a sudden vertigo that dragged her back twelve years, to a November night filled with black smoke and roaring flames.
—Documents, please—Carmen said, but her voice sounded strange, distant, as if it belonged to someone else.