Brecken takes a right onto another side road. “Somebody look up a map. Help me out.”

I pat my pockets, but my phone must be in my bag. I open the glove compartment, hoping for the best. There’s a folded road map with PENNSYLVANIA printed across the front. Brecken sees it and shakes his head.

“That’s not going to help unless we know where we are,” Brecken says. “I need navigation.”

“I’m already on it,” Josh says, his phone casting his face in a blue-white glow. “Make a right in fifty yards.”

I fold the map and put it back.

“This one?”

“Just take it!” Josh shouts. Brecken does, the back end fishtailing hard. A few moments later, Josh does it again. “The next left. And then the right just past it.”

My stomach is rolling again and my throat is too tight and too full. I grip the seat beneath me, my palms slick with sweat on the leather.

“I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” Harper says it over and over.

“You’re okay,” Brecken says, twisting left and right, sliding and shuddering around each corner and bend. “We’re doing fine.”

My heart is beating so hard against my ribs, it’s a miracle nothing cracks. But after a couple of miles, I think maybe he’s right. The truck lights are there, outside the back windshield, but after a few hills and another turn, they’re gone. The road stretches behind us, dim and narrow and clogged with snow. There are no lights. None.

Wait.

Headlights appear far in the distance behind us. I fix my eyes on those pinpricks of light, measuring the distance between that truck and ours. If I can see them, can they see us?

“Turn your lights off,” Josh tells Brecken.

“I didn’t turn them on.”

“They’re automatic,” Josh says. “Turn them off manually and your taillights won’t glow.”

He does and the road goes grayer than gray, a stark reminder that night is coming. Tall trees on either side of the car leave us lost in shadow. The snow hisses softly beneath our tires.

Brecken heads up a hill and brakes a little at the top. The car slides and my stomach rolls, but I twist around in my seat, searching that back windshield. To the twin pinpricks of light in the distance. I try to gauge things I have no hope of measuring. Distance. Speed. Make and model. Is the truck gaining on us? Is it another car altogether?

“Make a left just over this hill,” Josh says softly.

“What?”

“Here,” Josh says. “Into that campground. He won’t see because we’re on the downslope. Stay in the tire tracks so it’s not obvious.”

Brecken pulls in, past a battered wooden sign that reads: CEDAR HILL CAMPGROUND.

The driveway is nearly overgrown, following a gentle upward slope with a sharp curve to the right.