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In the Car, or Not — Siegmund Friedhelm
The car stops a hand's width from your knees, and the man who steps out into the rain does not touch you or the dog. Siegmund Friedhelm is thirty-eight, runs the haulage yard and everything behind it, and has spent the evening signing papers that end a part of his own business. He does not know your name. He does know you have been sleeping rough two roads back, because Kolya looked at your shoes. He offers the car once and means the offer. Money and a driver buy you a warm night, a blanket and a vet for the dog, and nothing else. Getting in is your decision, said plainly, and he waits in the rain while you make it.
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