Eventually, we all exit the car, but I’m the first one up the sidewalk, and I take my time. The day is blissfully quiet and still. It’s nice to not be crammed against strangers. There is nothing but me and the cold, clean smell of the air. I take a breath and think, I could be with Mom right now. She loves winter. She used to force Daniel out for a walk every morning. Now, she’s walking alone.

She’s been walking alone for a couple of weeks. If they were having problems, probably a lot longer than that. A twinge pulls at my middle. I should be home with her. I should have ignored her promises that she’d be fine. She wasn’t fine after Phoebe. I was fine; she was too devastated to be fine.

But Phoebe begged me to go back to school before she died.

I pull open the door to the rest area, and it’s like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a dystopian society. Muddy trails of footprints lead across the tile in a dozen directions, ghosts of travelers long past. There’s been a stampede, but now the building is empty and silent.

All the normal rest area staples are here—the giant wall map flanked by bathrooms with wide entrances, the bulletin board with travel notices and traffic laws. I move past a mostly dark alcove with a sign promising VENDING and then past a tiered rack of tourist attraction brochures for things like whitewater rafting and zip-line canopy tours. Every advertisement is summery and bright, a stark contrast to the bleak, gray landscape outside.

If the entrance was dismal, the bathroom is worse. The pale yellow walls and dark brown tile leave the long, narrow room with a jaundiced glow. Past the empty row of sinks, a line of beige toilet stalls flanks the opposite wall. A single fluorescent bulb strobes on and off above the second sink, a rhythmic flicker that sets my teeth on edge.

I have that same feeling I had in the car, but I don’t think anyone could walk into this room and not worry about a serial killer lurking in one of the stalls.

Still, who knows when I’ll have another chance to pee? I march forward, forcing my eyes away from the twitchy light and the dark familiarity of my reflection in each mirror. Even when the stall door is closed, I feel strange and exposed, my arms prickling with goose bumps.