The girl slept, leaning against the window, as the lighted spires of the city appeared in the distance. Dzinski inched forward in darkness thick as syrup.
He turned on the radio and the sugary, sharp-edged rasp of a long dead singer came out between hisses and coughs of static as they drove through the hills. The song distracted him from thinking about the girl and her chiseling, drunk, asshole father.
He’d figure out what to do with her tomorrow. After a drink and a steak and a good night’s sleep.
The skyscraper’s lights grew, becoming a beacon guiding him home.