I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was hovering dangerously close to ninety. “David, you’re doing ninety. Please, Leo is scared.”

I reached out, my hand instinctively seeking his forearm, a gesture that usually calmed him. He didn’t just pull away; he flinched as if I were acid.

“I’m getting us to our future, Sarah! Just shut up and let me drive!” he snapped, the venom in his voice so foreign, so sharp, it physically stung.

In the backseat, Leo dropped his toy truck. The plastic clatter sounded like a gunshot in the tense cabin. David let out a guttural sound, a noise of pure, unadulterated hatred that made my blood run cold. This wasn’t the man I married seven years ago. This was a stranger wearing his skin, driving us toward a destination that felt less like a home and more like a cliff.