You make the call.

My hands were shaking as I dialed my dad. Thankfully, it goes to voicemail. "Dad..." I **** myself to say, "I've got bad news. I was in the parking lot unlocking the car when this guy with a gun came up to me and made me give him the keys. He hit me with the butt of the gun and drove off with the car. I just came to. I'm going to call the police and then try to get a bus home. I'm sorry."

I knew he'd still be pissed at you for letting the car get stolen, but it was better than being the cause of an accident.

The truck driver listened to me and nodded when I finished. "Good. I've already called the cops, told them I was hit by a car and the driver fled on foot. Now go ahead and call in that missing car."

I did so. "Alright," the driver said, "I'll tell them it was a big guy with a shaved head and a bunch of tattoos. You do the same when they ask you to give a report."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"Don't mention it," the driver replied. "It's Walt, by the way." He offered his hand.

I reached out to shake it. He practically crushed my fingers in his strong grip. "Now," he said, "do you have a friend who can come pick you up before the cops get here?"

Oh. "No," I said, embarrassed.

Walt swore under his breath. "Fuck. And I've got to stay here to give a statement." He looked around. We were on a pretty rural stretch of road, and no cars had passed since the accident. There was no way I was going to make it far enough from the scene before the police arrived.

He thought for a moment. "Do you trust me?" he said finally.

He had already done far more than he'd had to to help me out. "Yes."

He went back to the cab of his truck, rooted around in the glove compartment for a bit, and returned with a small bottle. "Go ahead and take one of these," he said, tossing me the bottle.

"What does it do?"

"It's," he paused. "It's a disguise. One the cops won't be able to see through. I promise you, it's only temporary and nothin' bad will happen. Ok?"