"That’s my mom," Ryan says, nodding at the car approaching on the opposite side of the road.
It’s a quarter after eight and since I didn’t feel comfortable letting the young teen wait for her ride alone after the library closed, I’m out here with her. I squint, but in the spring twilight, I can’t make out the driver. "Are you sure that’s her?"
"I know my own car," she says, looking both ways before skipping across the street. We’re nowhere near the crosswalk, but it’s late and the roads are quiet. No one will mind her jaywalking.
I watch as she opens the back door to the BMW and climbs inside. Satisfied that she’s gotten in okay, I start to turn when the front passenger window rolls down and Ryan’s mother leans across the empty seat to shout over to me.