Uma: Hora Ruim Na Vida Do Cara...

As the truck began to lift the front of his car, Lucas felt a strange, sharp shift in the air. The heavy hour wasn't over, but the isolation was. He climbed into the high, warm cab of the truck, the smell of diesel and old coffee strangely welcoming.

The rain didn't just fall; it hammered against the windshield of Lucas’s 2005 sedan, which had decided that today, of all days, was the perfect time for the wipers to snap. Uma hora ruim na vida do cara...

He looked up. A man in an oversized yellow poncho was standing in the downpour, holding a heavy-duty flashlight. Behind him, a tow truck’s lights swirled. As the truck began to lift the front