Rain starts as a fine mist and quickly becomes steady, tapping against the pavement and darkening the concrete. The parking lot lights hum to life overhead, throwing pale reflections across rows of cars. Headlights cut through the drizzle as people leave in uneven waves—some in a hurry, some lingering to talk, others standing under the awning with phones pressed to their ears.

Your mother’s voice comes through the speaker tight at first, then unravels as you talk. She asks where you are, asks if you’re hurt, asks the same question twice. Somewhere in the background, a television is already on. A news anchor’s voice bleeds faintly through the call.

“Just… call me when you get home,” she says. “Please.”

The line disconnects.

A gust of wind pushes rain sideways. Water runs in thin streams toward the storm drains, carrying popcorn kernels and ticket stubs with it. Near the middle row, a sedan’s hazard lights blink unevenly, one side slightly out of sync. An alarm chirps once, then stops.

The lot attendant jogs past, jacket half-zipped, talking into a radio. “Yeah, we’re clearing it. No injuries reported outside,” he says, then pauses. “Copy—yeah, I’ll tell them.”

A car pulls out too fast near the exit, tires slipping briefly on the wet paint before catching again. The driver doesn’t slow, just merges into traffic and disappears.

Rain collects along the edge of a curb beside your row, pooling where the asphalt dips. A loose shopping cart rattles as the wind nudges it, its wheel clicking irregularly as it rolls a short distance and comes to rest against a bumper.

You’re in the parking lot, rain coming down harder now, the night settling back into something close to normal.

What do you do next?

I quickly pick up my phone and dial my mom. “Mom? Don't panic, I got out of the theater, you'll see it on the news any minute, I'm alright, I'm getting in my car and heading home.” I decide, moving into the parking lot towards my vehicle.

Rain begins as a fine mist, barely enough to darken the pavement, then settles into a steady fall that softens sound and blurs reflections. The parking lot lights come on in uneven intervals, some bright, some dimmer than they should be, their housings rattling faintly as wind moves through the open space.

Your mother’s voice carries through the phone, tight at first, then loosening as you speak. Other conversations overlap nearby—people recounting the same moment with different details, a security guard repeating instructions, a woman arguing with someone who insists on going back for a jacket left behind. Tires hiss as cars pull out faster than usual.

The lot has started to sheen. Water gathers in shallow depressions, spreading thin films across painted lines and concrete seams. Near the center aisle, a dark streak runs away from a parked sedan, rain pulling it into a wider, iridescent smear that reflects the overhead lights. No one seems to notice it. Footsteps pass through without comment.

A gust pushes rain sideways. One of the light poles flickers once, steadies, then flickers again. Somewhere close by, a car alarm chirps and stops. Another vehicle’s headlights come on without the engine turning over, left running by someone pacing nearby with a phone pressed to their ear.

The rain is enough now that people hurry. Doors slam. Engines rev harder than necessary. A man backs out quickly, brakes late, corrects with a sharp turn that sends water spraying up in a fan before he disappears toward the exit.

Your car sits where you left it, unchanged, rain stippling the windshield, the roof collecting a thin layer of water that runs toward the edges in uneven streams. The lot around it is busy but thinning as people leave.

What do you do next?

I hop in my car and start the engine, pulling up the GPS and entering my home address. I make my way out of the parking lot.

The engine turns over without hesitation. Wipers sweep the windshield, struggling at first, then settling into a steady rhythm as rain thickens. The GPS accepts the address and recalculates, a calm voice announcing a route that avoids the street directly in front of the theater. Emergency vehicles have already started to choke it.

Cars funnel toward the lot’s exit in uneven bursts. Brake lights flare and fade. Tires hiss across wet concrete. The dark streak in the center aisle has spread with the rain, pulled thin and wide, blending into the general shine of the pavement until it no longer stands out as anything distinct.

As you roll forward, headlights catch the surface at a low angle. The reflections smear instead of breaking cleanly. A compact car ahead accelerates too hard, fishtails briefly, then straightens and disappears onto the street. No one stops.

At the exit, a security guard waves traffic through faster than normal, trying to clear the lot. His radio crackles with overlapping voices. He steps back abruptly to avoid a side mirror, boots sliding half a step on the wet paint before he regains balance and motions the next car through.

The GPS chimes again. A new alert appears at the top of the screen: Heavy rain reported ahead. Drive time unchanged.

Out on the street, water has begun to pool along the curb. Storm drains gurgle, struggling to keep up. A delivery truck idles at the corner with its hazard lights on, driver leaning out the window to argue directions with someone on the sidewalk. Traffic squeezes past in single file.

A green light turns yellow sooner than expected.

What do you do next?

In a sudden realization that my life is on the line, I leap out of my car at the green light and rush off the road into the ditch.

Rain starts as a fine mist and quickly becomes steady, tapping against the pavement and darkening the concrete. The parking lot lights hum to life overhead, throwing pale reflections across rows of cars. Headlights cut through the drizzle as people leave in uneven waves—some in a hurry, some lingering to talk, others standing under the awning with phones pressed to their ears.

Your mother’s voice comes through the speaker tight at first, then unravels as you talk. She asks where you are, asks if you’re hurt, asks the same question twice. Somewhere in the background, a television is already on. A news anchor’s voice bleeds faintly through the call.

“Just… call me when you get home,” she says. “Please.”

The line disconnects.

A gust of wind pushes rain sideways. Water runs in thin streams toward the storm drains, carrying popcorn kernels and ticket stubs with it. Near the middle row, a sedan’s hazard lights blink unevenly, one side slightly out of sync. An alarm chirps once, then stops.

The lot attendant jogs past, jacket half-zipped, talking into a radio. “Yeah, we’re clearing it. No injuries reported outside,” he says, then pauses. “Copy—yeah, I’ll tell them.”

A car pulls out too fast near the exit, tires slipping briefly on the wet paint before catching again. The driver doesn’t slow, just merges into traffic and disappears.

Rain collects along the edge of a curb beside your row, pooling where the asphalt dips. A loose shopping cart rattles as the wind nudges it, its wheel clicking irregularly as it rolls a short distance and comes to rest against a bumper.

You’re in the parking lot, rain coming down harder now, the night settling back into something close to normal.

What do you do next?

I quickly pick up my phone and dial my mom. “Mom? Don't panic, I got out of the theater, you'll see it on the news any minute, I'm alright, I'm getting in my car and heading home.” I decide, moving into the parking lot towards my vehicle.

Rain begins as a fine mist, barely enough to darken the pavement, then settles into a steady fall that softens sound and blurs reflections. The parking lot lights come on in uneven intervals, some bright, some dimmer than they should be, their housings rattling faintly as wind moves through the open space.

Your mother’s voice carries through the phone, tight at first, then loosening as you speak. Other conversations overlap nearby—people recounting the same moment with different details, a security guard repeating instructions, a woman arguing with someone who insists on going back for a jacket left behind. Tires hiss as cars pull out faster than usual.

The lot has started to sheen. Water gathers in shallow depressions, spreading thin films across painted lines and concrete seams. Near the center aisle, a dark streak runs away from a parked sedan, rain pulling it into a wider, iridescent smear that reflects the overhead lights. No one seems to notice it. Footsteps pass through without comment.

A gust pushes rain sideways. One of the light poles flickers once, steadies, then flickers again. Somewhere close by, a car alarm chirps and stops. Another vehicle’s headlights come on without the engine turning over, left running by someone pacing nearby with a phone pressed to their ear.

The rain is enough now that people hurry. Doors slam. Engines rev harder than necessary. A man backs out quickly, brakes late, corrects with a sharp turn that sends water spraying up in a fan before he disappears toward the exit.

Your car sits where you left it, unchanged, rain stippling the windshield, the roof collecting a thin layer of water that runs toward the edges in uneven streams. The lot around it is busy but thinning as people leave.

What do you do next?

I hop in my car and start the engine, pulling up the GPS and entering my home address. I make my way out of the parking lot.

The engine turns over without hesitation. Wipers sweep the windshield, struggling at first, then settling into a steady rhythm as rain thickens. The GPS accepts the address and recalculates, a calm voice announcing a route that avoids the street directly in front of the theater. Emergency vehicles have already started to choke it.

Cars funnel toward the lot’s exit in uneven bursts. Brake lights flare and fade. Tires hiss across wet concrete. The dark streak in the center aisle has spread with the rain, pulled thin and wide, blending into the general shine of the pavement until it no longer stands out as anything distinct.

As you roll forward, headlights catch the surface at a low angle. The reflections smear instead of breaking cleanly. A compact car ahead accelerates too hard, fishtails briefly, then straightens and disappears onto the street. No one stops.

At the exit, a security guard waves traffic through faster than normal, trying to clear the lot. His radio crackles with overlapping voices. He steps back abruptly to avoid a side mirror, boots sliding half a step on the wet paint before he regains balance and motions the next car through.

The GPS chimes again. A new alert appears at the top of the screen: Heavy rain reported ahead. Drive time unchanged.

Out on the street, water has begun to pool along the curb. Storm drains gurgle, struggling to keep up. A delivery truck idles at the corner with its hazard lights on, driver leaning out the window to argue directions with someone on the sidewalk. Traffic squeezes past in single file.

A green light turns yellow sooner than expected.

What do you do next?

I pull out, heading for the highway.