Doch-an-dorris

"Just a quick parting drink," he said. It was more of an order than a request. I'd had a few myself, and as we'd done this many times, I didn't think much of it. He was a big guy, and he could handle his drink.

The one who couldn't handle it was the young woman he hit on his way home. She shrieked and shattered and rolled into a ditch. She was like glass: broken and unfixable.

Now he doesn't drink -- not a sip, not ever -- and I am the only one who knows why. They never found her body, so we did a good job. But a good job at a bad thing isn't really a good job at all...