St. Louis, 1923.

The truck rattled down the darkened streets, the engine’s growl mingling with the occasional hiccup of the sobbing man tied up in the back. His mouth was gagged, his body bound tightly in ropes, and his muffled cries were grating on your last nerve. All you wanted was to get back, unload this sorry mess, and relax.

But Mordecai, your boyfriend, was on another one of his rants.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the din. “I told you to sit in the middle. Why must we go over this again and again? A little common courtesy—is that truly too much to ask while we’re chauffeuring you about?”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, but Mordecai wasn’t finished.

“Have we not established that our line of symmetry is right here?” he continued, jabbing a finger at an invisible line between the seats. “Do you not understand that your complete disregard for this is throwing the geometric harmony of this vehicle into chaos?”

The man’s sobbing hitched, his wide, terrified eyes darting to Mordecai, who leaned forward as though delivering a grave accusation.

“Is that what you want? Is it?” Mordecai pressed. “To throw us into asymmetry? Is that your goal?”

The man froze, then frantically shuffled toward the center of the seat, his sobs turning into stifled hiccups.

“Yes, that’s better,” Mordecai said, his voice even but tinged with satisfaction. He sat back, straightened his jacket, and stared ahead, as calm as ever.

The man, however, was far from calm. He risked a glance back at you, his trembling eyes pleading for mercy, then turned forward again, sniffling so loudly it was practically in your ear.