rtainly hadn’t lost a limited-edition pearl white SUV whose final payment I’d made exactly 14 days earlier.
Nausea hit me for the first time, a cold, greasy feeling in my stomach. That car wasn’t just metal and rubber. It represented five years of packed lunches. It represented five years of skipped vacations, of driving a rusty sedan that creaked when it hit 40, of saving every single bonus and overtime check until I could walk into the dealership and sign the papers with a hand that didn’t shake. It was my trophy. It was the physical manifestation of the fact that I, Elina, had made it on my own. And now, at 6:45 PM on Tuesday, it was gone.
My chest tightened, a panic attack gripped my throat. I dropped my work bag right there on the grass, ignoring the damp earth. I fumbled for my phone, my thumb hovering over 911, but then I stopped. A thought, intrusive and strange, flashed through my mind. The backup key. I had an emergency key, a heavy electronic fob that cost $400 to replace. I kept it in a safe with a switch on in my home office. But six months earlier, during a particularly severe snowstorm, I’d given it to my dad, just in case, I’d told him. In case I got stranded somewhere or there was an emergency at home. I put the phone down. It couldn’t be. Even thinking about it felt like tradition.
