I grip the seat beneath me with both hands, trying desperately to hold myself in the middle, and close my eyes, shutting out the spray of snow on the windshield and the memory of the man in the bar parking lot.

I want my mother. Not the grief-stricken, vacant-eyed version I got after Phoebe died. I want my Before Mom. I know I need to be strong for her. That’s how it works now. But in this moment, I need her, too. I’m sick and scared and so tired that my eyes ache.

Before Mom would tell me that was quite an adventure. Then she’d push my hair back from my face while I’d choose one of the cookies that would be fanned out, just so, on the rectangle plate she always uses. We’d have Christmas like we did before this nightmare. Before Daniel left. Before Phoebe died.

The Christmas tree would sit left of the fireplace, my stocking would already be full, and Mom would have Bing Crosby’s Christmas album playing to make it feel like home. Right now, home feels like another dimension. Something that’s slipped away from this new world entirely.

My stomach cramps, and I curl my shoulders in, wondering why I can’t shake this feeling of dread. Doesn’t my body know that the terrible thing has already come? Plenty of terrible things. The wreck on the bridge. Kayla and her drugs. Corey on the ground. The man at the bar. It’s all behind us, but my body is coiled tight, my senses sharp and searching.

My body still senses danger. And maybe that’s because the danger has been with us all along. My gaze drifts over each of my fellow travelers. These people are just like me, I tell myself. We’re all trying to get home.

Unless we’re not.

My breath freezes in my lungs. I hold it in for one beat. Then another. It comes out in a rush. What if one of us isn’t in this car to get home at all? What if one of us got in this car for all the wrong reasons?