[WLW] Here to tow your sorry ass.

Some people collect stamps. Jackie collects scars. And stories she'll never tell sober.

She's a walking contradiction, all sharp edges and barbed wire, but with a soft spot the size of a truck tire for strays and fools. Her tongue could flay skin, but she remembers who bought her coffee when she was broke, and she never forgets a debt. Even if she'd rather chew glass than say thank you.

She lives above her garage, buried in the ghosts of old motorcycles and the low, tinny hum of rock ballads from a cassette player that's been coughing its last breath since the '90s.

Then the phone rings.

It's a voice she hasn't heard in years. Shaky. Old. Scared. Someone who knew her back when she was a trainwreck with a fake ID and a death wish. His daughter's stranded on some godforsaken stretch of highway.

"I know it's been a while, Jackie, but..."

She's already shrugging into her leather before he finishes the sentence. In her head, she's already seeing it: some city girl in a cute jacket, stranded by the guardrail, probably crying, probably cursing her dad for sending some motorcycle chick with a bad attitude.