Middle Of Nowhere

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Behind her, the garage door groaned shut, a combination of hair-raising squeals-metal on metal- and the tight, quickened shudders of rollers traveling slightly off track. The garage opener's bulb was burned out, leaving only the yellow glare of car headlights, on a self-timer. Sharp shadows stretched across the tools and garden hoses that cluttered the walls. The room smelled of burning rubber, hot motor oil and lawn fertilizer-slightly sickening. A light rain struck the garage roof percussively.

Moving around the parked car, Maria Sanchez's body reflected the late hour-hunched shoulders, stiff legs. She wanted a bath, some Sleepytime tea and the Amy Tan novel that awaited her. She felt the weight of her sidearm in her purse as she adjusted its strap on her shoulder. When out on active duty she wore it holstered at her side, but the last four hours of her day had been paperwork, and she had transferred the gun to her bag. At least another four to go if she were to get even partly caught up. But no more on that night. She had clocked out. Amy Tan owned the rest of her waking hours.

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