Harper’s sudden cry jerks me out of my own head. I spot it off the side of the road, a sad little picnic area nestled in a cluster of snow-covered trees. There are a few tables and freestanding grills lost under a thick canopy of snow. Two lonely swing sets and an old-school climbing gym sit to the right of a small squat building with two entrances.

Restrooms.

My bladder reminds me of the large bottle of water I downed. Brecken pulls in and we all stumble out without a word. Harper races for the back of the car, rifling through her bag. Whatever she’s after, she finds it quickly and makes a beeline for the restroom. Kayla trails after her, her steps wobbly and slow.

When I get out, Brecken is at the trunk again, unpacking, unzipping. Moving things. Maybe he thinks if he rearranges things enough times and in enough ways, all of our missing items will appear.

I head to the bathroom, looking back to make sure Josh is okay getting out. He’s crouched awkwardly, his braced leg stretched out to the side, by the open driver’s door, reaching just under the car.

“Are you okay?”

“Now I dropped my damn wallet.”

“Do you want help?” I ask.

He waves me off. “I’m fine.”

I nod and follow Harper and Kayla up the snowy sidewalk. I take a deep breath of cold air, feeling that same, terrible prickling. An indescribable unease that someone is watching me.

But they aren’t. Brecken is in the back. Josh is leaned against the car, looking at his wallet. Harper and Kayla are both inside the restroom. I’m alone, but I feel wrong.

You trust your gut, okay?

My dad’s words thrum just beneath my skin. Because if my gut is to be trusted, I need to get away from here. Away from this car, these people. Every sense I have is heightened and aware—warning me to run.

But how? Where would I go?

Even if there is something dangerous about these people, I can’t stay here. This isn’t a gas station where I can call my parents and stay safe and warm until someone arrives. This is a poorly lit park in the middle of nowhere. No electricity, no heated building, and no phone to call for help.

Gut instinct or not, logic is going to prevail. No one in this car has done or said anything threatening. Yes, I’m riding with a burnout and a thief. But that’s not a scary enough reason to risk hypothermia in the Pennsylvania wilderness.

Well, not quite a wilderness.

There’s nothing but trees on either side of the restroom building and a mountain sloping up steeply behind it as far as the eye can see. Across the highway, however, there are more signs of civilization—a snowy field and—across that—a single row of well-spaced houses.