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“Is that?” Becky asks, pointing to where we’re all looking.
Granted, you can’t help but look at the red sedan crashed into the pole less than twenty feet from the lobby doors. Even on fire, it’s clearly a red sedan.
“Yep,” Sammi says, folding up the receipt and sticking it in her pocket. “That’s a red sedan, alright.”
“Maybe it’s not ours, though,” I say. I’m desperate to put a good spin on this, especially if that spin means that we’re not going to have to explain anything to cops.
Sammi walks a few steps to where she can see the license plate, or at least what’s still unburned.
She walks back to stand beside us and confirms, “It’s our rental car.”
Well…shit.
