“You okay, mister?” she asked.

Another thumbs-up. She wondered if perhaps the scar tissue made its way up to the man’s neck. Perhaps he couldn’t speak at all. She shivered at the thought, feeling a jolt of sympathy as the truck bumped along the old road. She glanced out into the night once more, watching the passing trees. Every so often, she’d surreptitiously use the mirrors to keep an eye on her would-be rescuer.

A girl could never be too careful in the lonely Northwest.

As she considered this, the truck jarred suddenly, taking a turn onto an access road beneath a bright yellow sign.

“Hey, mister,” she said, her brow furrowed. “That’s not the turn.”

The driver didn’t reply, sitting like an automaton, glued to the wheel, eyes fixed ahead.

“Mister,” Sarah Beth said, louder now. “Please, hey—where are we going?”

Now she had the good sense to feel a sudden jolt of fright shooting through her. The access road gave way to a long-dead farm field. The dust and mud kicked up around them as the tires bumped and jounced, carrying the occupants of the truck quickly away from the highway.

Sarah Beth’s heart raced; she edged against the door, distancing herself from the driver. “Mister!” she said. “Where are we going?”

The driver continued ignoring her, and—if anything—now picked up the pace along the old farm road across from the dead field. Beneath the darkening sky, the barren ground and turned dirt against a gray landscape almost seemed like a giant, fresh grave.

“Hey!” Sarah Beth protested now, all attempts at manners fleeing in the face of a surge of fear. “Let me out! I mean it—let me out now!” Her fingers scrambled against the door handle, even though they were still moving.

But it wouldn’t open. She yanked at the thing, her fingers grazing cool metal, her knuckles against rough plastic. The door handle moved, but the door remained shut.

“Let me out!” she screamed now. She tried to roll down the window. Also locked.

Suddenly, the truck began to slow with the same jolting, scraping sound as it had on the highway. Dust kicked up in a cloud all around them.

The driver stopped, and Sarah Beth yelled as his hand reached toward her. A hand wearing a thick workman’s glove. But it didn’t strike her, nor did it seem to hold a weapon. Rather, now, as the dust settled about them outside the old dead field, the driver handed her another sticky note.

She stared, breathing heavily. “I don’t know what you’re playing at—” she began, her voice shaking.

But the gloved hand just pushed the sticky note toward her more insistently.

Sarah Beth accepted it with trembling fingers if only to have something to do. She glanced down, breathing heavily, though still keeping the driver in her line of sight. Why had he taken her off the road? What were they doing back here? Nothing good—no doubt. Nothing good ever came of things like this. She’d heard stories… horrible stories.