Page 2 of Endgame

Karen’s fingers fly across the keyboard, I’m assuming, to finalize the last few details. Before I know it, I’m on my way to take the photo they always forget to remind you about at scheduling.

Dreadful, truly.

Taking pictures is typically my thing. Now, it’s the lastthing I want to do.

Suppose I let myself reflect too much on the happiest time of my life.

I can still remember when I was twenty-two, in a healthyrelationship, or so I thought, surrounded by a family that loved me and a consistent income I could count on—I can almost physically feel the pain.

My tough skin can only get me so far.

Karen dismisses me with a very anticlimactic farewell, and I now have my new ID in hand.

Dakota Foster

That’s me.

Too bad I don’t recognize her anymore.

2

DAKOTA

This can’t be happening.

I’m turning the key over in the ignition to my beat-up truck, putting my entire body into this sucker, and nothing.Why?

How are people actually capable of remaining calm in situations like this? I finally found a way to escape the DDS, Department of Driver Services, and check off the task of getting my license, only to face another dilemma. It seems today is the day for life to test me to the brink of my patience.

I’m giving it my best effort, but this makes me feel like I could cry from frustration alone.

I won’t because I know once those floodgates open, there’s no recovery from the emotional disaster to follow.

Tears burn the back of my eyes as I do my best to take a deep breath and recenter myself before I fall apart.

It’s okay, Dakota. There’s a solution to this.

All I need is for it to start so I can make it out of this parking lot and back to Trevor’s place before he gets home. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, my best isn’t good enough because the truckdoesn’t budge. I’m useless when it comes to trucks. Let alone maintaining one. I do the bare minimum: oil change, tire rotation, gas, and all the other essential things to keep it running.

Chevy was my Dad’s baby. Still in near-perfect condition, considering his care knew no bounds. Chevy is also the truck he drove when he first met my Mom. The truck they shared their first date, first kiss, first so many moments in. Hell, I was most likely conceived in the back seat.

Now it’s only us—Chevy and me.

Without them.

Today is one of those days when you wake up and you know it’s bound to derail. I could feel it brewing. My intuition on that feeling is usually never misguided, with my current situation being a case in point.

Taking in a long exhale, I feel assured that I should probably get some help. Help with Chevy, I mean. There’s no way I would even remotely know what to look for under the worn hood, and I think it’s best I keep from trying—leave the job to those who are qualified.

My anxiety is dampening my already sour mood like a wet blanket, leading me to reach for my unhealthy addiction, one I refuse ever to quit. I rummage through my purse and pull out my last chocolate chip cookie. It’s no Biscoff, but it’ll do. This cookie is my last-ditch effort to calm the irritation simmering through me with some sugar.

My cookie addiction started in college. I wish I could say I had this big moment where they became everything I needed—that sounds ridiculous just thinking about it—but I found myself knee-deep in finals pressure, and cookies were the vice that kept me sane.

I’ve never been an energy or soda drinker, buta baked good, I’m so far up in all that, there’s no chance of ever conquering it.

It’s most likely where all my curves come from and the reason I have to work extra hard to stay toned.

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