Escalation

The rain, a persistent drizzle that had been Jack’s companion for the past three days, slicked the asphalt of Elm Street into a glistening, obsidian mirror. He hunched deeper into his worn leather jacket, the collar pulled high against the damp chill, and glanced at his watch. Already late. Ms. Gable, his landlady, had a particular fondness for punctuality, especially when rent was due.

He was just rounding the corner onto Maple Avenue when it happened. A delivery van, its hazard lights blinking like frantic, yellow eyes, braked sharply. Jack, lost in his thoughts of how to spin a tale about a phantom power surge to explain his tardiness, hadn’t noticed the patch of oil slicked pavement until his sneakers began to slide. Panic flared, a cold, sharp jolt in his gut. He instinctively threw out a hand, not to catch himself, but to brace for the inevitable impact with the unforgiving concrete.

But the impact never came. Instead, the world seemed to stutter. The van, which had been mere inches from his flailing leg, abruptly lurched backward, its tires squealing in protest. Jack found himself standing, perfectly balanced, a good five feet from where he’d been a moment before. The van, now stationary again, was a safe distance away. The driver, a young man with a shock of bright red hair, was leaning out the window, his face a mask of confusion.