Naturally, this means we don’t find an open gas station. Actually, we don’t find an open anything, but to be honest, there isn’t much to be open. It’s mostly tree-covered mountains and steep valleys veering into darkness. Here and there, we’ll see signs of human life. We pass a closed Dollar General, a handful of houses and—in a tiny, no-name town—a white, steepled church. There’s a tree festooned with lights next to a sad-looking elementary school, but nothing looks open or inviting, and certainly nothing looks likely to provide restroom facilities.

“I hate to say it, but I’m going to need to stop, too,” Josh says.

“You can pee in a bottle if shit gets desperate,” Brecken says.

“That doesn’t exactly work for all of us,” I grumble.

Brecken thumps the steering wheel. “Can we not make this another feminist argument.”

“What are you talking about?” Harper asks.

“Women make everything about gender, and it’s bullshit.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Funny coming from the guy who told me I couldn’t help push the car.”

“Also funny coming from the girl who’s currently at my mercy.”

It’s a joke. It has to be. But cold runs through my veins in a rush all the same. I close my mouth, but Harper opens hers: “Actually, Brecken, it’s my car. My name, right?” She winks at me and her voice lilts—an effort to lighten the mood. “I think you’re all at my mercy.”

Kayla snorts. I turn to look and notice her smirking, even though she keeps her eyes closed. I wonder how long she’s been awake. How long she’s been listening. For that matter, is she always listening? Has she been asleep at all?

I turn forward, staring out at the snowy road, feeling a million miles away from everything familiar and safe.

Something isn’t right with these people. With all of them.

The thought comes fast and unexpected. I inhale deeply, reminding myself that’s paranoid talk. The kind of thing my mom started thinking after Phoebe died. But I’m not like that. I’m not paranoid.

But I’m not obtuse, either. I’ve learned to pay attention when the hair at the back of my neck prickles—when a carnal, bone-deep instinct tells me something is wrong. And that’s what my instincts are saying now.

Something is wrong in this car. With these people. Dad told me to trust that instinct. Hell, he didn’t need to teach me. I know to pay attention and to stay calm. That’s why I’m good with my mom. It’s damn hard to fall apart when you’re busy being steady for somebody else.

“A park!”