Driver

Sometimes we don't end up where we think we're going. A short story.

Gerald Tomason’s face was a geography of devastation. Sleepless nights had carved lines through his stubble, and his eyes held the particular exhaustion of a man who had run out of places to hide. He stood before his bathroom mirror, practicing words he would never say: I’m innocent. I didn’t know. I was just following orders.

The lies tasted like ash.