Chapter 1: A Cold Fare

New Year’s Eve, I picked up a girl who was practically vibrating with nerves about a job interview.

It was one of those crisp Kentucky winter nights where the cold creeps right through your coat and settles in your bones—the kind of night when most folks are at home, maybe watching the ball drop on TV or crammed together with family by the fireplace. Instead, I was out in my old Honda Civic, ferrying a stranger through the dark edges of town, the inside of my car buzzing with her tension.

From the way she kept dialing and chatting on her phone in the back seat, I pieced together that she only had a high school diploma and zero real work experience.

Her voice carried over the hum of my battered Civic, clear and anxious. She tapped at her phone screen, the blue glow flickering over her face. Each call started with a shaky breath, the kind you hear from new grads clutching for their first real shot. She admitted more than once she’d never had a real job—just odd gigs and helping out at her uncle’s hardware store back home.

But the job she was chasing promised a base salary of nearly ten grand a month, full health insurance, and a housing allowance.

That number hit me like a slap. Ten thousand a month? For someone with no experience, just a high school diploma? Unless you’re pulling strings on Wall Street, that’s not real. She rattled off those numbers to her mom, her boyfriend, and the mysterious contact who set her up, her voice flipping between hope and disbelief.

She said the projects were all top-secret government developments, only accessible through high-level referrals.

She dropped 'classified government work' like she’d practiced it for weeks. It reminded me of late-night TV scams promising six figures from your couch, except this time the bait was 'national security.' The more she explained, the less it added up. Secret projects, hush-hush referrals—everything just a little too cloak-and-dagger.

I was convinced she was being played.

The hairs on my neck bristled. I’d heard too many horror stories: big paychecks for no experience, secrecy, and urgency. It’s the oldest con in the book.

I couldn’t just sit there and watch her walk straight into a trap.

Every instinct screamed at me to intervene, to do something before she made a mistake she couldn’t take back. I felt like the last grown-up in a world that had lost its mind, wondering how many other drivers would just stay quiet and keep driving.

But the more she talked, the more my nerves frayed.

Each call, every odd detail she let slip, made my stomach twist tighter. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion—painful, but I couldn’t look away.

The GPS showed we were closing in on her destination.

The map glowed with a thin blue line, winding through backroads and empty fields. The closer we got, the more uneasy I felt. My fingers tapped restlessly on the wheel, knuckles white in the dashboard light.

Only fifteen minutes left.

The GPS counted down, but with each mile, it felt less like a drive to an interview and more like heading straight for a dead end. I glanced at the clock—11:21 PM. Most folks were probably popping champagne or texting Happy New Year to their friends.

This place was so remote—if it weren’t for the extra bucks, even as a local, I wouldn’t come out here at night.

The roads were cracked asphalt and potholes, lined with frostbitten grass and the occasional crooked mailbox. This stretch of Kentucky was famous for its abandoned tobacco barns and failed strip malls. My headlights barely cut through the darkness, but I kept driving. I needed the cash—not the thrill.

But this girl? She was actually heading out here for a job interview.

It made no sense. Who schedules an interview this late, this far out, on New Year’s Eve? Either she was desperate or just plain clueless. Maybe both. I checked her in the rearview, hoping for a flicker of doubt, but she was glued to her phone, determination carved into her features.

She looked both eager and nervous, her face almost glowing with anticipation.

She kept biting her lip, shifting restlessly. Even in the rearview, I could see her eyes shining—like this was her one shot and she wasn’t about to let it slip. Her knee bounced to the low country music I had on, a nervous energy pouring off her.

Her voice, thick with a Kentucky drawl, tried to sound more polished but kept tripping up.

She rehearsed lines under her breath, her accent slipping in and out as she tried for something more professional. Every now and then, a 'y’all' or 'fixin’ to' escaped, and she’d blush, quickly correcting herself. I couldn’t help but smile—she was earnest, if a little naive.

I kept sneaking glances at her in the mirror, worried.

She was so out of place—like a college freshman lost at a career fair in the city. I wondered if she realized how much danger she might be in, alone with a stranger, this far from home.

She looked delicate—thin, small-framed. She wore a white blouse and a black short skirt that didn’t suit her age, with a coat thrown over her shoulders for warmth.

Her legs shook every time a draft sneaked in from the back window. The skirt bunched awkwardly, making her seem even younger. The coat was faded and torn at the sleeve—maybe borrowed or thrifted. She kept tugging it tighter, but it didn’t help.

She was clearly copying some TikTok look, trying to pass for a professional. But anyone could see her whole outfit was straight off the Walmart clearance rack—the whole thing probably cost thirty bucks, tops.

The tags poked out from her collar, and her shoes—a scuffed pair of white sneakers—didn’t match at all. It was like she’d followed some influencer’s advice on 'how to nail your first job interview' without realizing real interviews out here in Kentucky didn’t look like that.

She hugged a big, overstuffed canvas tote to her chest.

I caught a peek inside: a dog-eared “Interview Skills for Dummies,” a battered water bottle, and an ancient iPad. In the pocket, a granola bar and a wad of tissues. She looked more like a college kid prepping for finals than someone about to land a high-flying government job.

Her face was all innocence, big glasses perched on her nose, hair tied up in a high ponytail.

The glasses kept sliding down her nose, and she’d push them back up, only for them to slip again. Her ponytail bounced every time we hit a bump—she looked like a kid playing dress-up.

She was on her phone the whole ride.

Her fingers never stopped—texting, scrolling job boards, calling someone every few minutes. She barely looked up, lost in a world where this job was her golden ticket.

Calling her boyfriend, her mom, and some so-called higher-up who’d arranged the interview.

She switched between speaker and whispers, depending on who she was talking to. Her boyfriend’s voice was brash, her mom’s soft and supportive, the mysterious 'higher-up' clipped and businesslike. She sounded like she was trying to convince them—and herself—that this was her big break.

I couldn’t even get a word in.

Every time I cleared my throat or tried to speak, she was already dialing again. I’d become invisible, just the background to her anxious monologue. I sighed and kept my eyes on the road.

Honestly, I couldn’t help thinking—kids these days are just too trusting. Makes you want to shake some sense into them.

It was maddening to watch someone so eager, so willing to believe. I blamed social media and its parade of get-rich-quick schemes, promising instant success to anyone willing to dream.

On New Year’s Eve, taking an unlicensed cab to a job interview, way out here, and she wasn’t even the slightest bit suspicious.

You’d think the date alone would be a red flag—no real business holds interviews at midnight on a holiday. But she hummed along to the radio and double-checked her makeup, like it was just another day.

What’s even crazier is, judging by her calls—

Her family and boyfriend didn’t see a problem either.

Her mom’s gentle, proud voice came through the speaker. Her boyfriend cheered her on with macho bravado, promising Chick-fil-A sandwiches if she landed the job. Not a single word of caution, not even a question about where she was or who she was meeting.

They actually sounded happy for her, convinced she’d lucked into something amazing.

I wondered what kind of bubble they lived in. Maybe small-town folks just wanted to believe in good news, even when it was too good to be true. Or maybe they’d all bought into the same fantasy.

Do they even realize how rough the job market is right now?

I thought about the news—layoffs, lines at the unemployment office, folks working two or three jobs just to scrape by. Jobs like this didn’t just fall out of the sky.

Ten grand a month, plus health insurance, housing, meals, and a place to stay.

It sounded like one of those scam emails from Craigslist. I’d seen enough broken promises and heartbreak to know better. I wanted to call her mom and boyfriend myself, just to shake them awake.

Heh. And here I am, a proud Ohio State grad—my salary got slashed by forty percent this year.

I shook my head, remembering my graduation, the hope I’d felt. Now, I was hustling for extra cash, just to keep the lights on. The world had changed, and not for the better.

To cover the mortgage and save for my daughter’s formula, I work a day job and drive an unlicensed cab at night.

Every day’s a juggling act—insurance sales by day, moonlighting behind the wheel at night. Sometimes I barely saw my little girl awake, but I kept at it. The American dream, right? Just more coffee and less sleep than I’d ever imagined.

Even working through New Year’s, running myself ragged, I barely make two grand a month.

Every extra shift felt like squeezing water from a stone. The bills kept piling up: heating, daycare, groceries. Miracles seemed to happen for everyone but me—and certainly not the kind she was chasing.

So what does that make me?

I looked at my hands, callused and tired, and wondered if I’d missed my own shot, too. Maybe we were both chasing dreams—hers a little shinier, mine a little more desperate.

If this company isn’t a scam, I’ll write my name, Derek Miller, backwards.

I almost laughed at my own bitterness. I’d seen a lot of scams, but this one was a new low. If I was wrong, I’d eat my own words—hell, I’d tattoo them on my forehead.

Listening to all this, I was getting mad. I’ve met clueless folks before, but this girl and her family were something else.

It was almost impressive, how deep they’d bought in. I gripped the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to pull over and set them straight.

I tapped the brake, slowing down, dropping from forty to twenty-five miles per hour.

I let the car crawl, hoping she’d notice the quiet and finally ask questions. Maybe I’d get a chance to talk some sense into her.

Trying to stretch out the ride as long as I could.

The fare was flat, not by the meter, but every minute felt like one last chance to break through her stubborn optimism. I scanned the roadside for a safe place to pull over if things got even weirder.

When she finally finished her second call to her boyfriend—in full Kentucky twang—I jumped in before she could dial again.

I cleared my throat and twisted in my seat just enough to catch her eye in the mirror. She hesitated, phone in midair. Now or never, I thought.

I chose my words carefully.

"Hey, kid, who goes for a job interview on New Year’s Eve at night? Isn’t this obviously a scam?"

I tried to keep my voice gentle, but the concern leaked out. The words hung between us, heavy as the cold outside.

As the headlights cut through the emptiness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was driving her straight into the kind of story that never ends well.