Begging For Mercy

My volunteer work was simple, a quiet act of kindness.

For two years, I drove underprivileged students to their SATs, finding genuine joy in helping.

Then my phone buzzed, and a sharp, high-pitched voice introduced me to Tiffany.

She wasn't just demanding a ride; she was demanding a luxury SUV for five, not three, and a perfectly pristine car.

"Make sure your car is clean. We don' t want to show up to the most important exam of our lives covered in dog hair or smelling like old takeout."

Her voice dripped with an entitlement that left me breathless, and I knew this was different.

I brushed aside the unease, telling myself it was just one difficult person.

But from the moment they sauntered out, laughing, holding expensive coffees, the verbal jabs began, culminating in Tiffany grabbing my steering wheel on the highway.

The car swerved violently.

A truck narrowly missed us.