You wake up in the back seat of a car, disoriented, your head pounding. For a second, everything feels muffled—the hum of the engine, the faint city noise outside, your own thoughts. It’s late. The kind of late where the streets are almost empty, and even the neon signs seem tired, flickering in the night.

You groan softly, your mouth dry, and it hits you: the taste of stale alcohol on your breath. You’ve definitely been drinking. Hard. You blink, trying to gather your thoughts, to piece together the night, but it’s like your brain is swimming through fog. As you glance around you notice the driver’s head—a Sikh turban wrapped neatly around it. Immediately, your panic flares, your still-drunken mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion—_terrorist_.

You shake your head, annoyed at yourself for such a stupid, knee-jerk reaction. It’s 2024, and your brain’s still wired with outdated, irrational fear. Slowly, things start clicking into place. You catch sight of the familiar “U” sticker on the windshield—an Uber. Of course. He’s just a driver, doing his job. Nothing more. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

Your throat feels like sandpaper, so you reach for the water bottle in the backseat. There’s a small stash of them for passengers, and you grab one, unscrewing the cap with shaky hands and considering giving this guy a big tip on the app. You think of your phone, but instead gulp down the bottle greedily, desperate to soothe the dryness in your mouth. It of course does nothing for the pounding in your skull. You’ll have to deal with that later.

Pushung through the headache, you decide to strike up a conversation. Maybe talking will help ease your nerves—or at least distract you from the pain splitting your head in two. You glance at the back of the driver’s seat and notice a small sign: “Fred.” It’s funny—_Fred_ seems like such a normal name for someone who, moments ago, you’d irrationally pegged as a threat.

“How’s it going, Fred?” you ask, forcing a smile, hoping to sound casual.

Fred glances at you in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. But there’s something in his eyes—surprise? Annoyance? Maybe both. You’re not sure what to make of it.

Then he speaks, his voice calm but firm. “I was wondering when you would wake up. I’ve had you there for a good hour now. I bet you wish you could get out.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and your heart skips a beat. An hour? You’ve been here an hour? You blink, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. You glance at your wrist—12 a.m. stares back at you from your watch. _What the hell?_ Your head spins as you try to figure out how long you’ve been out. How did you end up in Fred’s car for a full hour without noticing? Where were your friends? Megan, Sam, Tammy—your girls, the ones you never leave alone, the ones who’d never leave you alone.

Panic starts bubbling in your chest. How could you have been alone? You _never_ leave the bar alone. Your friends wouldn’t have let you. But maybe… maybe it wasn’t like that? Maybe they were there when Fred picked you up? Maybe you weren’t as alone as it feels right now.

You want to ask Fred what happened, but before you can get the words out, you instinctively reach for your phone—only it’s not there. Your heart drops. You fumble through your pockets, frantic, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Fred must notice the panic on your face because he speaks again, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Your phone’s on the ground,” he says, glancing at you through the mirror. “Same place we left your friends.”

His words slam into you like a cold wave. Your phone’s on the ground? And what does he mean by _left your friends_? Your mind reels. Were they okay? Were they hurt? Did something happen?

Suddenly, your hands twitch, your body ready to do something—anything—to make sense of this nightmare. You even think about kicking the seat, demanding answers, but instead, you swallow the panic and force yourself to ask quietly, “Why is my phone on the ground?”

Fred sighs, his tone patient, like he’s dealing with a child. “You threw it, lady. At one of your friends. You said you didn’t need it anymore. Told them to take it.”

The room—or rather, the car—spins for a second as you try to absorb what he just said. You threw it? At your friends? Why the hell would you do that? Nothing about this makes sense. Your voice rises an octave without meaning to. “My friends—are they okay? Why didn’t I need my phone?”

Fred doesn’t react to the edge in your voice. He keeps driving, as if this conversation is completely routine for him. “Look, miss,” he says, his voice steady, “I’m tired. I’m off work. I really don’t have time for games.”

You sit back, dumbfounded. _Games?_ He thinks this is a game? The frustration boils up in your chest. The fear mixes with anger, and suddenly, you’re furious—at yourself, at the situation, at Fred. You don’t remember any of this, and the fact that Fred seems to know more about your night than you do makes it all worse.

“You kidnapped me, and you don’t have time for games?” you snap, unable to stop yourself.

Fred pulls up to a red light—the first one of the trip, and everything feels too still. The silence is deafening. He turns his head slightly, his face still annoyingly calm. “Listen, lady,” he says, his voice even as he makes eye contact with you through the rear view mirror, “the doors are unlocked. You can leave anytime. In fact, I wish you would.”

You stare at him, incredulous. Is he serious? Just like that? You don’t know what to think anymore. Nothing makes sense.

“What do you mean?” you demand, your heart racing.

Fred lets out another sigh, pulling out his phone as the light remains red. “You know what?” he says, scrolling through something. “I was right to do this.”

He passes his phone back to you. You take it cautiously, your hands still trembling from everything that’s happened. For a split second, you think about calling your friends—_finally_, some contact, some answers. But then you see it: your own image on the screen. A play button right in the center of it.

Your stomach drops. You hit play.

The video starts with Fred’s voice, off-camera. “Okay, I’m recording now,” he says.

And then there you are. A disheveled, sloppy version of you. Drunk, leaning back in the same seat you’re sitting in now.

“C’mon, let’s go already. Go, go, go!” you slur in the video, your voice unrecognizable in its recklessness.

Fred’s voice responds from behind the camera, calm but firm. “So you’re not going to leave my car?”

“No, let’s go,” you slur again, dragging out the words.

“Okay, well, I’m off my shift and going home. It’s across town. I’m warning you. Are you coming or leaving?”

“Goooooo,” you say, almost laughing, slurring the word into oblivion. Then, you buckle up with an exaggerated motion, and to your horror, you hear yourself shout, “Bye, bitches!” before throwing your phone at Sam.

The video ends.

You sit there, staring at Fred’s phone, utterly dumbfounded. Shocked into silence.

Fred doesn’t say anything for a minute, letting the silence hang between you as the car inches forward through the quiet streets. He’s driving slowly now, almost cautiously, like he’s giving you space to process what you just saw. Outside, the city passes by in a blur of flickering streetlights and empty sidewalks. A late-night diner, a couple of people walking their dog, everything feels surreal, like you’re watching it all from some kind of dream.

You rub your temples, trying to make sense of it. “I—I didn’t remember,” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to be like that.”

Fred glances at you in the rearview mirror, his expression softening a little, but he doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Yeah, well, alcohol can make people do stupid things. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. But tonight, you were… pretty insistent.”

Your stomach clenches. The weight of what could’ve happened hits you hard. You threw your phone at your friends, stayed in a stranger’s car, and then passed out like nothing mattered. If it hadn’t been Fred you think, noticing a photo of him and his young daughter for the first time, pasted near the small screen on the dash? You dismiss the thought.

You grip the water bottle from earlier, twisting the cap on and off, trying to focus on anything but the sick feeling in your gut. “I just… I never get like that,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but Fred hears.

“Everyone says that,” he replies quietly. “But it happens. You’re not the first person I’ve driven who didn’t know their limit.”

The car ride continues for a long while, and you say nothing—shell shocked from this whole ordeal. However, after a while the streets grow more familiar. And then you recognize the neon glow of the bar you had been at with your friends, its sign flickering in the distance. The sidewalk outside is almost empty now, except for a couple of figures still lingering, waiting. Your heart catches in your throat when you realize who they are—Megan, Sam, and Tammy, huddled together near the curb.

You breathe out a long, shaky breath. “Oh my God,” you whisper. “They waited.”

Fred pulls up slowly, stopping a few feet from the curb. You can see Sam pacing, her arms wrapped around herself, Megan leaning against a streetlamp, her phone glowing in her hands. Tammy’s the first to spot you. She perks up, nudging the others, and they all turn toward the car, relief washing over their faces when they see you.

Fred doesn’t say anything as you fumble with the door handle. Before you step out, you pause, turning back to him. “Fred, I—” you begin, not even sure what you’re going to say. Thank you? I’m sorry? Both?

But Fred just gives you a small, tired smile. “Take care of yourself. And next time, maybe don’t throw your phone at your friends.”

You manage a weak laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, no kidding.” You give him one last nod, then push the door open and step out into the cool night air.

Your friends are on you in an instant. Sam rushes toward you, holding up your phone like it’s some kind of trophy. “You threw this at me!” she shouts, but there’s more laughter than anger in her voice. Sam grabs you, pulling you into a tight hug before Tammy joins in, the three of them crushing you in a wave of relief and exhaustion.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble into their arms, your voice thick with emotion. You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for the phone, for disappearing, or for making them worry—or maybe all of it. But they don’t seem to care.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tammy says, her voice soft and reassuring. “We were just freaked out when you didn’t come back.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Sam adds, squeezing your shoulders. “But at least you’re okay. That’s what matters.”

Sam, still holding your phone, laughs. “I mean, you threw this at my _face_, but yeah, we’re glad you’re alright.”

You smile through the exhaustion, a knot of guilt still sitting heavy in your chest, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. You’re safe. Your friends are safe. And while the night didn’t go how you planned, at least it didn’t end worse.