The third seat was for Marisol, but she was late. Carl checked his phone. 6:54. They had a six-minute window before the 580 turned into a parking lot. He was about to call it when she came running—scuffed work boots, high-vis vest unzipped, a hard hat swinging from her belt loop. She worked the morning shift at the Port of Oakland, loading containers.
The carpool lane was their artery. For fifteen miles, they crawled and surged, a silent understanding passing between them. Darnell would point out brake lights ahead. Sofia would hold her phone up to show a three-car pile-up near the Maze. Marisol, the quietest of them, would occasionally hum a corrido that made the worn upholstery feel less like a prison. car pool richmond
"Morning," Carl grunted.