Editor’s note: In her spare time, Brodi Ashton, a New York Times best-selling author, is an Uber and Lyft driver in the Salt Lake City area. She’s sharing stories from the road in this occasional column.

I picked him up in what some consider a sketchy neighborhood. He wore black pants, a black shirt, black jacket, black sunglasses, and his hair … black and slicked back. He sat in the front seat, which is uncommon but not rare. He was quiet, which was fine by me. Other than noticing his impressive dedication to black, I didn’t think much of the guy.

But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out … something. It was a wad of something. It was squishy and, of course, it was black.

I was hoping it was innocuous. Like licorice. But then he flicked his wrists, the wad unfolded and there they were, two black latex gloves dangling from his fingertips.

I squeezed my eyes shut and thought for the first time that my husband might have been right — it’s dangerous to be a rideshare driver.

When I started driving for Uber, my then-boyfriend-now-husband was trepidatious, to say the least.

What if, due to all the distractions of navigation and strangers, I crashed the car?

What if I spent more on gas than I earned driving?

Or what if someone with untoward intentions hailed my Uber?

I had assured my husband that my clean driving record would remain intact, and I switched to a hybrid car, so that took care of the fuel problem. As for evildoers? I was sure their star ratings would be too low to ride, due to their evilness.

His concerns were assuaged (after a ridiculous amount of time debating the correct pronunciation of assuage. It is not, as one of us believed, pronounced uh-sewage, and it does not, as the other believed, rhyme with massage).

As I set out on my new adventure, I was confident his fears would prove unfounded. That was, until this particular rider.

I tried to ignore the gloves. Maybe he was just rearranging things in his pockets. Maybe he’d even forgotten they were there and pulled them out in curiosity. I focused instead on the flashing lights of the train crossing, which had halted our journey and complicated any escape.

As the freight train cars slowly rumbled by, the man raised his left hand and slowly worked his fingers into the clingy latex.

My pulse sped up like a locomotive.

Not like the slow, lumbering train in front of us, but like a Eurostar topping 180 mph from London to Paris.

We’d be stuck at this train crossing for several minutes. Plenty of time for him to attack or, if I was lucky, plenty of time for me to formulate a plan.

He had the left glove on and started working on the right.

What were they for? Visions of nefarious and macabre scenes flashed through my mind. Obviously, there could only be one use for latex gloves: killing unsuspecting Uber drivers.

I thought about my options. Should I change the route to the busiest streets? Should I clandestinely dial 911? (Since my phone was mounted on the dash right in front of us, it wouldn’t be so clandestine.) Should I get the car rolling and jump out? Somewhere in the back of my head, I was worried about the rudeness of such an action, but my fear of murder overpowered my sense of propriety.

I thought about my husband. Was he tech savvy enough to figure out my last location? Would he work with Uber to solve the crime? And why did I think it would be Uber investigating?

Just as the caboose finally made its way across the road, the man turned to me and then he spoke.

“I’m a mechanic. I put the gloves on so I wouldn’t get your car dirty.”

He said this as if he were making a comment about the weather: “It seems awfully smoggy out there, and these gloves are not to murder you.”

Here’s my tip to all of the Uber riders out there: If you get in a car, especially with a female driver, and you feel the need to snap on latex gloves, do not keep her in suspense as to the why. Tell her. Immediately. Lead with something like this: “These are not to kill you.”