The summer heat of that night clung to the asphalt like a curse hanging over the town of Baton Rouge. It was already past midnight when Danielle Morris, a thirty-two-year-old social worker, left the shelter. The air smelled of impending rain and gasoline, creating a heavy atmosphere where even silence seemed to weigh heavily on your shoulders.
Her phone vibrated abruptly in her pocket, displaying a message from her sister warning her of an increased police presence. Danielle smiled weakly, used to night shifts and familiar with the streets of her neighborhood. Little did she know that this night would radically, tragically, and irreversibly transform her life forever.
She was driving an old blue Honda Civic that rattled as soon as she went over 60 kilometers per hour on the road. Gospel music drifted softly from the speakers as she drove through deserted industrial areas with flickering, dim streetlights. Her hands remained firm on the steering wheel until flashing lights suddenly exploded in her rearview and side mirrors.
