It was 6:10 on a Tuesday morning when the crossover answered my key turn with a single apologetic click. Not the rapid stutter of a dying starter — just one click, the automotive equivalent of a shrug. I had a 7:30 call, a phone at 14 percent, and a trunk containing one ice scraper, a …
It took a hit-and-run in a grocery store parking lot to finally teach me a lesson I should have learned a decade ago: the truth doesn’t set you free — footage does. Somebody backed into my wife’s car with a pickup, left a crease the size of a forearm, and drove off like nothing happened. …