Story code: ST-000155
Part 2: The Dead Battery
The flashlight beam did not waver, pinning Eleanor against the worn fabric of the driver’s seat like a specimen under a microscope.
“Hey!” a voice barked, muffled by the frosted glass. “Unlock the door!”
Panic flared in Eleanor’s chest, sharp and suffocating, but years of academic discipline locked her facial expression into a rigid mask. She kicked the insulated sleeping bag down into the dark footwell, her boots tangling in the synthetic down. Frantically, she shoved her arms into the sleeves of her wool peacoat, adjusted her scarf, and grabbed a red pen. She rolled the manual window down exactly two inches.
The biting winter wind slashed across her face, carrying the exhaust fumes of the idling tow truck.
“Is there a problem?” Eleanor asked, forcing her voice into the steady, authoritative register she used for silencing crowded lecture halls.
The flashlight dipped, revealing a man in a high-visibility yellow jacket. His breath plumed in the freezing air, illuminated by the rhythmic flashing of the amber strobes. He stared at her, then glanced at the thick stack of graded papers resting on the dashboard. “You can’t be in here, lady. Lot’s closed.”
Footsteps crunched against the asphalt, and a second man stepped into the truck’s headlights. He wore a heavy crimson parka embroidered with the university’s athletics crest. He frowned at the tow operator. “Security didn’t clear this row?”
“Guess not,” the operator grunted. “Found her sleeping.”
“I was not sleeping,” Eleanor snapped, holding up a marked midterm. Her fingers trembled violently, though she prayed the men would attribute it to the freezing temperature rather than sheer terror. “I am Dr. Vance. Department of Sociology. I was finishing up my grading for an early seminar and lost track of time. It is perfectly fine. I will move the vehicle right now.”
The athletics coordinator adjusted his glasses, checking a clipboard under his arm. “Faculty permit doesn’t cover Lot C after two a.m. on game days, Dr. Vance. We have heavy catering equipment moving in for the alumni tailgate. You need to vacate the perimeter.”
“Understood. I am turning the engine on now.”
The tow operator leaned closer, gripping the frosted edge of her window. “I already got the J-hooks touching the axle. Once the hooks make contact, that’s a seventy-five dollar drop fee. Company policy.”
Seventy-five dollars. Eleanor did the math instantly, her heart slamming against her ribs. She had exactly forty-two dollars in her checking account until the university payroll processed on the fifteenth. Her emergency cash envelope, tucked beneath the spare tire in the trunk, held two crumpled ten-dollar bills.
“You dropped the winch three seconds ago,” Eleanor said, keeping her voice impeccably level. “You have not lifted the tires. Remove the hook, please.”
“Take it up with dispatch. Or pay the fee.” The man tapped a small card reader strapped to his safety vest.
“Just let her go, Miller,” the athletics coordinator sighed, stamping his heavy boots against the frozen pavement. “We don’t have time for the paperwork or an argument with the faculty senate. Just pull the rig forward so she can back out.”
Miller scowled but pushed off the door frame. The hydraulic whine reversed, and the heavy steel hook scraped off Eleanor’s bumper, hitting the asphalt with a heavy, metallic clang.
“Thank you,” Eleanor told the coordinator, gripping the steering wheel.
“Just get out of here, Professor,” he said, already turning toward the next row of snow-dusted cars. “We’re chaining the exit gates in ten minutes.”
Eleanor rolled the window up rapidly, sealing herself back inside the freezing cabin. She let out a ragged, painful exhalation. She had survived. She dropped the red pen onto the passenger seat, pressed her stiff foot against the brake pedal, and turned the ignition key.
*Click.*
The dashboard lights flickered weakly and died. The digital clock, the odometer, the faint green glow of the radio-all of it vanished into complete blackness.
A cold dread pooled in Eleanor’s stomach. No.
She turned the key back, pulled it out, and shoved it into the ignition again. She twisted it hard.
*Click-click-click-click-click.*
The starter motor chattered helplessly. The engine didn’t even attempt to turn over. The three hours of running the dome light to grade papers, combined with the brutal overnight temperatures, had completely drained her four-year-old battery.
Eleanor’s vision blurred. She pumped the gas pedal-a useless, desperate gesture-and twisted the key again, holding it down. Nothing but the hollow clicking of the relay echoed in the cabin. The Honda was dead.
Outside, Miller was climbing up into the cab of his massive flatbed. He paused with one hand on the grab handle, looking back down the aisle at her darkened vehicle.
Eleanor rolled the window down again, her numb fingers slipping frantically on the manual crank. “Excuse me!” she called out, her carefully crafted academic tone fracturing at the edges. “Excuse me, I… my battery. It seems the cold has drained it. I just need a quick jump start.”
Miller walked back over, his heavy boots echoing like a death knell. He peered through the cracked window, a grim smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “A jump? I’m a towing service, lady. Not roadside assistance.”
“Please. It will take two minutes. You have the equipment right there on your truck.”
The athletics coordinator, drawn back by the rising voices, marched over. His patience was completely evaporated. “What is the hold-up now?”
“Professor’s got a dead battery,” Miller said, crossing his arms. “Car’s a brick.”
“Unbelievable,” the coordinator muttered, pulling a walkie-talkie from his thick belt. “Dr. Vance, you have to exit the vehicle. We are towing it to the overflow impound lot on South Campus. You can sort it out with parking services when they open at nine.”
“No!” Eleanor unbuckled her seatbelt, turning her body fully toward the window. “You cannot tow this car. I have my lecture notes in here. I have sensitive student records.”
“Take your briefcase with you,” the coordinator said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “Hook it up, Miller. We’re losing time.”
Miller didn’t hesitate. He marched straight to the back of the flatbed. The hydraulic winch screamed as it lowered the heavy towing arm beneath the front bumper of the Honda.
Eleanor gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. If they took the car, they took everything. They took her shelter, her winter clothing, her meager food supply, and the last fragile shred of dignity she possessed. Once the vehicle entered the impound system, she would need to pay a towing fee, an impound fee, and a daily storage fee. Over three hundred dollars. Money that literally did not exist.
The Honda lurched violently as the steel crossbar locked beneath her front tires.
“Ma’am, get out of the car!” Miller yelled over the deafening roar of the diesel engine.
Eleanor refused to move. The front end of the Honda began to lift into the air, the cabin tilting sharply backward. In the trunk, the carefully stacked plastic bins holding her entire life shifted. They crashed against the thin backseat partition, the heavy sound of spilling canned soup and loose silverware echoing through the cabin like a collapsing building.
The athletics coordinator froze, shining his flashlight straight through her rear window. “What in the hell is all that?”