The app showed a pickup at the Marriott downtown. Four-star rating, heading to Sky Harbor. Miguel checked the time—2:47 PM. The August heat made everything shimmer. He'd already done six rides since morning, his back aching from the cheap seat cushion he kept meaning to replace.
He pulled into the hotel's curved driveway. A young woman stood near the sliding doors, phone pressed to her ear, designer suitcase at her feet. Professional clothes despite the heat—black blazer, pressed pants. She raised her hand, and Miguel's chest went tight.
Sofia.
Fifteen years since he'd seen her. She'd been seven then, missing her front teeth, crying as Elena packed the car. Now here she was, climbing into his backseat, giving him the polite half-smile passengers always gave.
"Sky Harbor?" he managed.
"Terminal 4, please." She didn't look up from her phone.
Miguel pulled out, hands steady on the wheel. In the rearview mirror, he watched her typing. Same concentrated expression Elena used to have. Same way of tucking her hair behind her ear. His throat felt like sand.
The AC struggled against the heat. Outside, Phoenix sprawled flat and beige under the brutal sun. Construction on the 10. Traffic already building. Forty minutes to the airport, maybe forty-five.
"Mom?" Sofia said into her phone. "Yeah, I'm in the Uber now."
Not Uber. Lyft. But Miguel said nothing.
"The interview? It went okay, I think. They asked about my experience with integrated campaigns." She laughed—nervous, not happy. "Right? As if I have tons of experience. I'm twenty-two."
Twenty-two. Miguel did the math he'd done a thousand times. She'd graduated college then. May, probably. He'd missed that too.
"No, Mom, I didn't go anywhere else. Why would I want to see Phoenix in August?" A pause. "I know he lives here somewhere. So what? It's a big city."
Miguel merged onto the freeway. His hands were sweating. He wiped them one at a time on his jeans.
"I don't care where he is," Sofia said. "I haven't cared in years."
The words hit him in the stomach. He focused on the road, the white lines, the semi-truck ahead doing sixty-five.
"We're doing fine without him. We've always done fine." Another pause. "Mom, stop. I'm not angry. I'm just—I don't think about it."
She ended the call. Miguel glanced in the mirror. She was staring out the window now, watching the city pass. The same city where he'd lived all these years, driving these same freeways, wondering where she was.
"How long have you been driving?" she asked suddenly.
The question startled him. "Driving?"
"For Lyft. How long?"
"Four years." His voice came out wrong, too rough. He cleared his throat. "Four years next month."
"You like it?"
Nobody ever asked that. "It's work."
She went quiet again. He could smell her perfume—something expensive, sophisticated. Not the strawberry body spray Elena used to wear. This was a different person, someone he didn't know. Someone he'd never know.
They passed the exit for McDowell. His apartment was two miles south. The place with the broken AC and the neighbor who played music until three AM. Sofia probably lived somewhere nice in Seattle. Elena had remarried—he'd heard that through Elena's cousin who still sent Christmas cards. A dentist or something. Good for her.
"Mind if I make another call?" Sofia asked.
"Go ahead."
She dialed. "Hey, it's me. Just heading to the airport." Different voice now—lighter, happier. Boyfriend probably. "Yeah, I think it went well. The second interviewer seemed to really like my portfolio."
Miguel wanted to ask about the job. Marketing, she'd said. He wanted to know everything—what she'd studied, where she'd gone to school, what kind of work she wanted to do. But drivers didn't ask those questions. Drivers stayed quiet and got their passengers where they needed to go.
"I land at nine-thirty," Sofia was saying. "Can you pick me up?" A laugh. "Yes, I'll buy you dinner. That Thai place you like."
Thai food. Miguel wondered what else she liked now. Music? Movies? Books? Did she still draw? She used to draw constantly—horses, mostly, and dogs. Elena would tape them to the refrigerator. There'd been dozens when they left, covering the whole front of it. He'd kept them up for months after, then thrown them away one night when he was drunk. Another thing he couldn't take back.
"Excuse me," Sofia said. "Could we stop for gas? I need to use the restroom."
"Sure." His voice cracked. "There's a Circle K at the next exit."
He pulled off the freeway, into the gas station. Sofia got out quickly, heading inside. Miguel sat there, engine running, watching her through the glass doors. She bought a water, chatted with the clerk. Normal things. A normal person living a normal life.
He could tell her. When she came back, he could say something. Sofia, it's me. I'm your father. I've been sober eight years. I think about you every day. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry.
But what good would that do? Ruin her day, that's what. Make her feel ambushed, trapped in a car with someone she'd chosen to forget. She'd probably report him to Lyft. He'd lose the work. And for what? To clear his conscience? That was selfish. That was the kind of thing the old Miguel would have done—make everything about himself, his pain, his needs.
She came back, sliding into the backseat with her water. "Thanks."
"No problem."
Back on the freeway. Twenty-five minutes to the airport now. The afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, brutal and bright. Miguel adjusted his visor.
"You from Phoenix?" Sofia asked.
The question caught him off guard. "Yeah. Born here."
"Must be tough in the summer."
"You get used to it."
"I couldn't do it. I need rain. Green things." She took a sip of water. "I'm from Seattle."
"Nice city," Miguel said.
"You been there?"
"No. Heard it's nice."
She looked at her phone again. They were passing through downtown now, the skyline rising on either side. The baseball stadium. The arena where the Suns played. He'd taken her to a game once when she was little. She'd been more interested in the nachos than the basketball, cheese all over her Phoenix Suns t-shirt. Elena had been annoyed. Miguel had thought it was funny. One of the good nights, before the bad ones took over.
"You have kids?" Sofia asked.
The question was a knife between his ribs. In the mirror, he saw her looking at him, actually seeing him for the first time. His face—older, lined, gray stubble he'd forgotten to shave. Nothing like the father she might remember, if she remembered him at all.
"A daughter," he said finally.
"How old?"
"Twenty-two."
"Same as me." She smiled. "Does she live here?"
"No. She's far away."
"You must miss her."
Miguel's hands tightened on the wheel. "Every day."
Sofia went quiet. He'd said too much, let too much feeling into his voice. But she just looked back at her phone, already somewhere else.
The airport exit came up. Terminal 4, she'd said. Departures. He navigated the loop, following the signs. Cars everywhere, people hauling luggage, saying goodbyes. The ordinary chaos of people going places, having lives.
He pulled up to the curb. Sofia gathered her things, checking she had everything. Boarding pass on her phone. Purse. The water bottle.
"Thanks," she said, opening the door. "Have a good day."
"Wait." The word came out before he could stop it.
She paused, one foot on the curb.
"The interview," Miguel said. "I hope you get the job."
She smiled—a real smile this time, surprised and pleased. "Thanks. That's really nice of you to say."
"You seem—" He stopped, swallowed. "You seem like you'd be good at it. Whatever it is. Marketing."
"Thanks." She looked at him more closely, and for a moment he thought she might see something, recognize something. But then she said, "Take care," and was gone, pulling her suitcase toward the automatic doors.
Miguel sat there, watching until she disappeared inside. Other cars honked behind him. He needed to move. He put the car in drive, pulled away from the curb.
The app dinged. New ride request, two minutes away. Accept or decline? He stared at the phone mounted on his dashboard. Sofia was probably at security now. In an hour, she'd be in the air, heading back to her life. The life she'd built without him. A good life, from what he could tell. Elena had done right to leave. To take her away from what he'd been then.
He accepted the ride. Pulled back into the pickup lane. A businessman got in, already on a call, giving Miguel an address in Scottsdale. Miguel nodded, pulled out into traffic.
The sun was lower now but still merciless. His back hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. But he drove. It was Thursday. Six more hours on his shift, then home to the empty apartment. Tomorrow, the same. The day after, the same. This was his life now—carrying strangers where they needed to go, saying nothing, being nothing. A ghost driving through the city.
But Sofia was real. She was alive and smart and building something. She didn't need him. Had never needed him, really. That was the gift Elena had given her—a life without his shadow over it.
The businessman ended his call. "Hot one today," he said.
"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "Sure is."
They drove east toward Scottsdale, the mountains purple in the distance. Miguel didn't look at them. He watched the road, the lines, the mile markers passing. Calculating distance, time, the fare. Numbers he could understand. Numbers that didn't hurt.
His phone, tucked in his shirt pocket, buzzed. A notification from the app—your passenger left a tip. He'd check it later. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that she was safe, she was okay, she was going somewhere good.
The businessman started another call. Miguel turned the AC up a notch and drove. The city spread out around them, endless and flat, baking in the heat. Somewhere above them, a plane was taking off, carrying his daughter back to her life. He didn't look up. He never looked up anymore. Just ahead, at the road, at the next turn, the next fare, the next forty minutes of someone else's day.
When his shift ended at eleven, Miguel drove home to his apartment. The parking lot was full of the usual cars. Music thumped from somewhere. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, his knees protesting. Inside, the apartment was dark and hot. The AC had quit again.
He got a beer from the refrigerator, then put it back. Got a glass of water instead. Eight years sober. Eight years too late, but still. He sat on his couch in the dark, drinking the water, thinking about the forty-minute drive.
She'd seemed happy. That was something. Nervous about the interview, but confident too. She had people who loved her—the mother who worried, the boyfriend who'd pick her up. A whole life.
Miguel set down the empty glass. Went to his bedroom, to the bottom drawer of his dresser. Under old tax returns and insurance papers was a manila envelope. Inside, three photos he'd managed to keep. Sofia at five, grinning, missing a front tooth. At six, on a bike with training wheels. At seven, the last one, wearing a dress for Easter.
He looked at them in the dim light from the street lamp outside. The same eyes, just younger. The same way of concentrating. The same person, just smaller. Before she became who she was now. Before she forgot him.
He put the photos back. Lay down on his bed fully clothed. Tomorrow he'd call the landlord about the AC. Tomorrow he'd get the seat cushion. Tomorrow he'd do another twelve hours of driving, maybe more.
But tonight, he lay there thinking about her voice. Professional but warm. Confident but kind. She'd built herself into someone good. Without him, yes. In spite of him, maybe. But good nonetheless.
The neighbor's music got louder. Miguel closed his eyes. Forty minutes. That's what he'd been given. Forty minutes to see who she'd become. To know she was okay. It was more than he'd deserved.
Outside, the city went on. Planes taking off and landing. People coming and going. Lives intersecting briefly, then moving apart. The great circulation of strangers, of which he was a part. A small part. An invisible part. But still moving, still there, still carrying people where they needed to go.
Somewhere over Arizona now, flying through the dark, his daughter was heading home. He pictured her reading, or sleeping, or looking out at the lights below. Not thinking of Phoenix. Not thinking of him. Free.
Miguel turned onto his side, facing the wall. His back would hurt worse tomorrow from the bad mattress. He'd need to stretch before his shift. Do the exercises the clinic had given him. Take care of himself, not for any grand reason, but because that's what you did. You got up, you worked, you came home. You did it again.
In the darkness, he thought he could still smell her perfume in his car. But that was impossible. The car was outside, windows cracked for ventilation. By morning, any trace of her would be gone. Just another passenger on another day. Four stars—she'd probably given him four stars. Most people did. Polite, professional, got them where they needed to go. That was enough. That had to be enough.
The music from next door finally stopped. Miguel listened to the silence, to the hum of traffic on the distant freeway, to his own breathing. Alive. Still here. Still owing what he owed, which was everything and nothing. The debt that couldn't be paid, only carried.
Tomorrow someone would get in his car and tell him where they needed to go. He would nod and drive them there. They would pay and leave and rate him on the app. This was his work, his purpose, his penance. It was enough. It had to be enough.
But tonight, for just tonight, he let himself remember her smile when he'd wished her luck. Surprised and genuine. As if kindness from a stranger mattered. As if what he'd said had meant something.
It was a small thing. The smallest thing. But he held onto it as sleep finally came, as the city cooled degree by degree, as somewhere his daughter flew through the darkness toward home.