Three Million Witnesses

There were no cabs nearby, so I booked an Uber home.

Four people were crammed into the tiny, stuffy back seat.

The reek of stale sweat mixed with sour milk crawled up my nose.

The old woman cursed me in dialect for dressing like a slut. The wife griped that I was crowding her son.

I shifted toward the side, and the old man's body pressed right up against me again.

The driver had some tacky club track blasting and, without so much as turning his head, tried to smooth it over. "Come on now, let's all say less."