Me: Somewhere on 78. Roads are fine—this is totally overblown. And my mom STILL hasn’t told me.

Zari: Mom wouldn’t talk to me about it, but something’s up. I could tell by her face.

Me: Did she say anything?

Zari: Mom’s glad you’re coming home. That’s all she’d say.

Me: Shit. She’s in bad shape again then.

Zari: Don’t know. Maybe she just misses you. How long is it going to take to get here?

Me: Six hours in normal life. God knows in this mess. Also? These people are weird.

Zari: Who are they?

Me: Two guys, two girls from some fancy southern California college.

Zari: USC?

Me: Pomona, I think. It’s a bizarre friend group.

Zari: Are the guys hot?

Me: Not hot enough to be as weird as they are.

Zari: HA! Ok, be careful. I was thinking maybe you could come over. After the concert. You have to make it to the concert, Mira.

Me: I will. See you soon?

Zari: Soon.

I tug my beanie on and decide I’m going to need caffeine to endure the rest of this nightmare. I follow the signs promising refreshments. The lights must be malfunctioning, because the only illumination comes from the panels of the vending machines. I follow the glow and decide immediately that REFRESHMENTS AREA is a stretch, because from what little I can make out, there are a few tables situated in darkness and four sad-looking vending machines. Not exactly a bustling food court.

I fish in my pockets for a few dollars, approaching the blue glow of the soda machine. After the right combination of cash and buttons, a plastic soda bottle tumbles down. I stoop to retrieve the bottle and see something reflected in the plastic door. Something behind me at one of the tables.

No, not something.

Someone.

Chapter Five

I whirl, panic throwing me off balance. My back bumps the machine and my hand presses into my chest. Someone is seated at one of the tables. It’s a man, stooped in the shadows. I can barely make out battered work boots and straight shoulders under a thick flannel coat. I can’t tell where his hands are, and his face is entirely lost under the brim of a battered yellow baseball hat.

“I didn’t see you,” I say, sounding breathless.

He doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s sleeping. He’s just sitting there in the dark, no drink or snack near him. I inhale and smell disinfectant. Strong disinfectant that’s eerily familiar. My skin crawls as I crouch to get my soda. I do it with my body at a strange angle because every fiber of my being resists turning my back on this man.