This weekend I had to drive kid 3 to a party held in a suburb a long way north of us. Stopped at a red light, I saw a young woman get out of a taxi cab; she had a small suitcase. She spoke a few sentences to the driver and then he drove off.
She looked a little bit lost, and I wondered why she hadn't caught the train; the railway station was only about a block away and she didn't look like she could afford a cab fare.
Maybe she was coming to the station? But why not get the cab to drop her there?
She walked one way and then turned and went back a few steps. She looked as if she was lost or was waiting for someone, but why wouldn't she get the cab to their address? Why meet them at a service station?
And why wouldn't she meet the person she was clearly waiting for at the railway station if they were catching the train together?
It made my spidey senses tingle.
And almost before I could help it, I had imagined an entire scenario for how she got there and why; who she was waiting for and why they were making it so odd.
And I had noticed all of this and thought it through before the light changed.
That’s what having the mind of a writer is like...