“Emma, I’m in trouble. I need you. Please, come. This is serious.” That had been two days ago. My brother’s voice echoes in my head, frantic and desperate. He didn’t give me details, just that same old plea that always pulls me back in, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m done with his messes. But this time, something in his voice felt different. Wrong. It felt wrong. I packed up a suitcase, tossed it in the trunk of my Audi Q5, and left Santa Clara. What’s a thirteen-hour drive when your brother needs you? So here I am, driving through the storm like an idiot because I can’t say no to him. I turn the windshield wipers up as high as they would go. The thunk, thunk, thunk of the wipers is way too loud. I come home for the first time in years and the sky is crying. Fitting.The road is a blur of asphalt and water. My headlights look like tiny candles. They are completely ineffective. I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are white. And then it happens. The car jolts violently. Max, my best friend and favorite dog, sits up in the passenger seat. I hear the unmistakable thud of a flat tire. “Are you kidding me?” I slam my hands on the wheel. I am 20 minutes from home and this happens…