I imagine I must have looked fierce at that moment, like an angry little pony baring its teeth and stamping its hooves, glaring at Wesley with wide eyes, inexplicably transferring my pent-up resentment onto him.

Given Wesley's temperament, I expected him to order me out of his car. But surprisingly, he didn't do that. He pulled out a checkered handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. But I was angry now and didn't want his handkerchief.

There was another reason. Last ...