He drove frantically toward the train station. She would be arriving soon and he had to be there for her, had to be prepared for whatever baggage—physical, metaphorical, or otherwise—she'd brought with her this time.
The light turned green, which was his cue to go again. He did—perhaps too quickly for the conditions—and skidded through the intersection, kicking water onto other cars. Horns honked, but he kept moving. He heard the noise, was vaguely aware of it, but the commotion remained in the background as he focused on reaching his destination on time.
There were still 12 blocks to go and three minutes to get there. He would make it eventually, but not before she did. That immutable truth ate at him like ants devouring a dead bird. It overwhelmed him, animated him beyond reason.
Six more blocks, 30 more seconds. Five seconds per block. There were no vehicles in production that could achieve such speed, even with the lights in his favor. There were barely vehicles in his dreams capable of such speed. Not that his dreams were of vehicles, asphalt, or trains.