Richmond | Car Pool

"Morning," Carl grunted.

They didn't talk about their lives outside the car. Carl didn't mention that his wife had left him last spring, taking the good frying pan and the dog. Darnell never said why he flinched when a truck backfired near the toll plaza. Sofia didn't bring up the eviction notice tucked behind her cutting board at work. And Marisol never once mentioned the letter from immigration services she kept folded in her vest pocket.

But they knew. The way you know things in a car at 7 AM. The shared weight of a glance, the way someone's hand tightened on a seatbelt when a highway patrol car slid past. car pool richmond

"Sorry, sorry, the 74 didn't come," she panted, yanking the rear door open and squeezing in beside Sofia. The car sank an extra inch.

Darnell nodded. He didn't do small talk before 7 AM. Carl respected that. "Morning," Carl grunted

"Buckle," Carl said.

"Same time," Darnell said.

One Tuesday, the Crown Vic started knocking. A deep, metallic cough from somewhere under the hood. Carl pulled into the San Pablo exit, killed the engine, and they all sat in sudden, awful silence.