The driver knows who killed his fiancée, his single reason for living, his life itself -oh dear, dear, irreplaceable Paula. It was the man who swore he would kill her, and her father, for putting him behind bars. His sentence wasn't very long, eight years at the most, so the past five years have been a waiting game. When the driver and his lady moved to California back in January, he had begun to think that things might not turn out so bad. They had hit a couple of rough patches, mostly involving a lack of employment and the money troubles that followed, but they felt that as long as they stuck together, everything would turn out all right. Even that morning, on his early-hours return home from work, the driver was thinking of how he was just one more paycheck away from buying Paula that diamond ring he had picked out. With that modest band and quarter-cut stone, it would seal their future together, and maybe even shield them from.......but then he pulled up the driveway and his headlights caught the prostrate figure, amidst a pool as dark as crude and half as slick.

The driver relives the moment with a wrenching pain of disgust, horror, and murderous fury. He doesn't realize it, but his hands grip the wheel as if it were the neck of the son of a bitch he has set out to find. His fingers grow numb and his forearms shake from the strain, but the driver can only focus on one thing: conquering every one of the torturous miles between here and Dearborn, Michigan, where Paula's parents wait and suspect nothing of her fate nor their own. The driver knows that he should stop and call them, tell them that their little girl has been murdered and now the killer is coming for them; but he can do nothing but press down harder on that pedal. There remains too much distance between himself and the man who stole everything from him earlier this morning.