"You gonna go or what?" she grunted.

Exhaust eddied within the glow of the headlights. Nadine pulled out her earbuds and slowed to a stop maybe twenty feet from the intersection, close enough to recognize the car's chugging, wheezing rumble.

It was that dotty old bitch Mavis. Her Cadillac roared like a giant pink beast as she revved the engine in the dark.

Not another car in sight. The woods eerily silent, closing in around them.

"How the fuck did she know I'd be here?"

Last ferry out, that's how. You always take the backroads, everyone in town knows that.

"Well, fuck her. I'm not going around. What's she gonna do, run me over? She doesn't have the balls."

Nadine put her headphones back in, put both feet on the pedals and rolled toward the intersection.

Fifteen feet away, Mavis became visible in the interior dome light, her big Kentucky Derby hat casting her face in shadow.

At ten feet, Nadine could see someone else in the back seat, hunched over in silhouette.

She heard the engine rev, louder than the music in her ears. A ripple of fear traveled up her spine and settled at the base of her skull.

"Come at me, you Boomer bitch," she said to spite the fear. "I fucking dare you."

The shiny American-steel grille gleamed like the teeth of a predator as the headlights caught her, throwing her shadow long.

So close now, but neither the driver nor her passenger were visible any longer. The headlights were too bright and the miasma of exhaust too thick, swirling up around her like a toxic fog.

Nadine threw a middle finger toward the grumbling beast as she passed and steeled for the sound of peeling tires, the crushing impact of steel shattering her bones.

And then she was pedaling out of the bright, swirling exhaust.

The car hadn't made a move to strike her. Mavis and the woman in the backseat still sat idling at the stop sign, as if they'd merely come to watch her leave.

Nadine let out a triumphant laugh. She'd survived.

She turned back to the road ahead just as a large buck leaped out of the woods.

Too late to stop. Barely enough time to swerve.

The antlers caught in her back tire and she hurtled over the handlebars. Then she was floating in the wavering arc of the bicycle light.

She struck the ground, shoulder-first. Felt her clavicle snap like kindling. Her cheek and palms shredded on sharp gravel. Her knees grinded, her legs flinging up like a ragdoll's.

Her helmet cracked, sending a shockwave through her skull.

She saw stars. Not in the sky. In the road.

Lying there, the pain sharp, she spat out a mouthful of gravel dust. A thick wad of blood came with it. At least she was alive. Her headphones lay a foot from her face, the funky bassline of "The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret" playing a tinny soundtrack to her misery.