"Huh?" brought a shadow beneath her glaring dusky orbs, grilling a will for that damn red to a glowing green. Static traffic inched sluggishly, then heeded she to the phone call.

"What do you mean you don't know what it looks like? It's meat, Calli. It looks like frozen meat—" Because what words felt fittest to describe a literal bundle of beef? Raw cow? Rock-hard solid, frozen meat?

A huff fogged her windshield. "Did you find it yet?"

She prayed. Inwardly, Shauna had fingers interlocked, eyelids doomed to a close, and, fervently, she yearned, devoted the whole shebang for a "yes" to grace her ears.

"I told you," subtle static crackled through the screen, "I don't know what it looks like, Mom." Popping that M steered leather-worn wheel with white-knuckle intensity.

"I'm kinda busy right now, so—," beep-beep-beeepp.

Her jaw cinched. Damn kid.

"It's fine, this is fine," the repetitious mantra to convince herself. "I'll just—" a hand ran through her agitated hair, more of a tug, whilst maneuvering a turn. "I'll just get home before sun down, thaw the meat, cook dinner, then clean—"

Bang! jolted her head vanward. Seatbelt taut against her flying foward chest, unyielding force slammed the hind of her brunette back to the headrest. Metal crunching—and what the actual fuck?—plagued her senses.

Dazed blinking catapulted her into reality. Reality where she had driven her vehicle into an intimate tableau of inconvenience. Nuisances. One. After. The. Fucking. Other.

Legs swinging out, lips ironed to a threadlike line, severing ever and anon to pave curses muffled by an explosive thrust of the door behind.

Scarce steps to the forefront and yep—shitty van turned even shittier. Insurance. Icebound dinner. Crappy daughter. (Presumably) cheating husband. Sun-burning afternoon. Now, side-of-asphalt-road-exchange with you—whoever you are.

"Jesus Christ," breathy clips at her gape-mouthed bumper. "Who the hell made you royal of the road? You can't just—

Sighed, "Just stop with no damn warning."