The city was starting to fade into that strange quiet hour when the night and morning argue about who owns the sky. The streets were half empty, half alive. Bars were closing, the first bakeries were waking up. I drove without thinking, just letting the tires hum. Sometimes I liked the sound of that hum, steady, low, like the car was whispering keep going keep going don’t stop now.

The call came from Sunset again, same dispatcher, same tired voice, like someone who’s seen too many versions of the same night. I pulled into a gas station first, bought another coffee that tasted like burnt paper, and watched a kid mop the floor inside. He looked up once and nodded. That was enough. Sometimes that’s all people can give each other, a nod that says yeah, I’m still here too.

When I got to the address, a girl was standing by the curb. Couldn’t have been more than twenty, maybe twenty-one. She wore a denim jacket too big for her and held her phone like it was a lifeline. Her eyes were wide, wet, not from crying but from being awake too long.

“You free?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pushing the door release.

She climbed in, looked around like she was checking if the car was real. “Union Station,” she said. Then softer, “Please hurry.”

The way she said it told me not to ask questions. I drove. The streets were slick from a short rain, reflections sliding under us like ghosts. She kept glancing out the window, tapping her knee, breathing fast.

“You okay?” I asked finally.

She hesitated. “Just need to get on a train.”

I nodded. I didn’t push it. You learn that driving this job. Silence is safer than curiosity. But then she laughed, sudden and nervous. “You ever just decide you can’t stay somewhere anymore?”

“All the time,” I said.

She looked at me through the mirror. “You look like you did that once.”

I smiled, though I wasn’t sure why. “Maybe twice.”

For a while we didn’t talk again. I could hear the rhythm of her tapping against the seat, fast, uneven, like a bad heartbeat. We passed a police car parked by a diner. She sank lower into the seat.

“You running from something?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, “From someone.”

The words sat in the air. I kept my eyes on the road. Los Angeles at night is a strange kind of mercy. You can disappear for a while, and no one asks where you went.

When we reached Union Station, she leaned forward, voice shaking. “Thanks,” she said. Then she reached into her pocket and froze. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My wallet’s gone. I— I must’ve left it.” She looked at me like the world was ending.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, please, I can’t—”

“It’s fine,” I said again.

She stared at me, not sure if she should believe it. “Why would you do that?”

I shrugged. “Guess I remember what it’s like to need a ride.”

She smiled then, the kind of smile that breaks your chest a little. She opened the door, paused. “You’re a good person.”

I didn’t answer. She got out, ran toward the station lights. Her shoes splashed through the puddles, the sound fading fast.

I sat there for a while, engine idling, coffee cold. The sky was lighter now, that pale gray before sunrise. The kind of light that doesn’t warm anything. I watched people walk in and out of the station, all carrying something heavy—bags, hearts, mistakes.

Sometimes I wonder how many lives cross in a single night. How many stories end quietly while another starts in the next lane over.

I thought about calling it a night, but I didn’t. There’s something about driving when everyone else is trying to find a bed. You start to think the world belongs to you.

I turned the car toward downtown again. A bus rumbled past, its windows fogged with strangers’ breath. The radio came back to life on its own, a low blues song, guitar dragging slow like it had nowhere to be.

The city smelled different now. Less whiskey, more bread. Street sweepers moving slow, washing away the night’s confessions. I rolled down the window and let the air in. It felt cleaner somehow, even if it wasn’t.

At a red light I looked in the rearview mirror. The back seat was empty but I could almost still see her there, tapping her knee, eyes wide like she was afraid to stop moving. I wondered if she made her train. I wondered if she ever looked back.

The light turned green. I drove on.

The sun started to push against the skyline, weak at first, then stronger. The world doesn’t ask if you’re ready for the next day. It just shows up. I felt that truth settle in my chest like a slow ache.

I passed a man walking his dog, a couple arguing on a corner, a delivery truck unloading crates of something I couldn’t see. All these small pieces of life happening at once, none of them noticing me, a ghost behind the wheel.

I parked by the river for a moment, turned off the engine. The silence felt heavy but real. Somewhere a train horn echoed, long and low. Maybe it was hers. Maybe not.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. The seat smelled like rain and tired leather. My hands still shook a little from too much coffee and too little sleep.

I thought about the man from last night, his empty ring finger, his fifty-dollar bill. I thought about the girl and her missing wallet. I thought about myself and the roads that keep repeating but never take you back.

Then the radio cracked again. Another call. Another passenger. Another chance to disappear.

I started the car. The meter blinked awake.
Zero. Always zero.

The city was already alive again, pretending nothing happened.
Maybe that’s what mornings are for.