I glance in the rearview mirror. Daisy’s still back there, and that man’s standing closer to her now. I don’t want to think about what he might do to her, or what the next trucker who offers her a ride could try, the bargain he might force her to make in the dark. I don’t like to think about what I could do to her either.

It would be better for us to leave her here. Probably safer, too. She’s a stranger to us, dead weight, a nobody. But I was a nobody too, and I remember what it’s like for everyone to forget you, just because it’s easier that way.

With a sigh, I wave one hand in the air. “Hurry up,” I call to Daisy, and with a childish whoop, she comes running.

“I was at a music festival in Monterey all weekend,” Daisy tells us, as the Buick ricochets up the 101. “But then my ride ditched me, and I’ve been hitching along the highway ever since.”

Daisy keeps on like this, giving us answers to questions we haven’t asked, barely stopping to take a breath. We pass through a eucalyptus grove, pungent and earthy, and I sit back, imagining somewhere else. Imagining Michael. He’s back in L.A., searching for me. The thrall tightens between us, and I close my eyes.

“Here,” I whisper, drawing him closer.

Bee glances at me. “You all right?” she asks, and I nod, not looking at her. Not wanting to admit what I just did.

Daisy droops suddenly over the front seat. “Give me your hand,” she says to me.

I sneer. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, “I read palms. People tell me I’m really good.”

That’s all I need, some hippie girl peering into a future I wish I didn’t have. But Daisy seizes my hand anyhow, inspecting every crevice.

“You’ll find love,” she says, “but it won’t last. You’ll survive it, though, because that’s what you do. You keep going, no matter what.”

“She’s right so far,” says Bee, her eyes still on the road. “What else does it say, Daisy?”

“You think you don’t need anybody, but that’s silly. We all need each other.” A strained pause. “Your lifeline, though—”

I scoff. “Does it go on forever?”

“No, that’s just it,” she says. “It’s barely there. Like it’s been cut in half or something. See?”

She points at it, a vague line etched into my palm. It’s thinner than I remember, and shorter too. As though I don’t have forever after all.

I pull away from her, as the urns shift restlessly again, one in my lap, the other at my feet.

“They’re talking about daylight now,” she says. “How we don’t have much longer before sunrise.”