Hilda slammed on the brakes, heart hammering in her chest.
The screech of tires pierced the air, so shrill it felt like it tore through her eardrums.
She had barely avoided a collision.
Her hands clutched the steering wheel as she gasped for air, heart racing in panic and rage. But the driver of the battered minivan ahead didn't even get out. Didn't so much as wave an apology.
Not a sound. Not a face.
No remorse at all.
Furious, Hilda rolled down her window and screamed, "What the hell is wrong with you? Trying to get yourself killed? If you've got a death wish, just say so!"
Still no response.
She, Hilda —respected, admired, always surrounded by flattery and status—was being ignored by some dirtbag in a run-down minivan?
The nerve!
Her anger flared, clouding any shred of reason. In a blind rage, she flung open her door, stormed over, and began pounding on the minivan's side door.
The metal thudded dully under her blows.
