Peyton Sawyer

Her car races down the quiet streets of the small town, violently scattering a small plume of autumn colored leaves across the jet-black asphalt as she passes.

She's late.

Fifteen minutes late.

Seventeen minutes late, she realizes as she checks her watch again. She'd lost track of time at the record store, adding this to the reasons why she should finally break down and just buy a damn watch.

She presses her foot down on the accelerator just enough to race cleanly through a light that turns yellow, then she kisses the tips of her fingers and presses them to the roof of the car paying homage to...