“Ah, stay here.” He yawns, belting out an arching sigh, stretching his arms in the air. “Bathrooms are open. Showers are coin-op. Any campsite. No one’s here anyway. We can settle up tomorrow.” He turns and walks toward the cabin without fanfare.

“Thank you!” I yell after him.

“Sleep tight,” he yells back.

By the time I get in the car, the lights across the road have gone dark and I can only see the edges of the cabin because I know it’s there.

I park at a site across from the bathroom. I’m feeling ambitious. Light a fire, craft a tent of some sort from the blankets I have. I keep the headlights on and search for sticks to toss in the fire ring, but in the shrubs there’s a pair of eyes, reflecting green. My blood stops running. I tell myself it’s just a raccoon or a possum. I try to stay calm. But twigs snap behind me. I scramble back to the car. Lock the doors and sit in the driver’s seat very still, trying to watch the windshield and the rearview mirror at the same time, waiting for whatever was out there to get me. Nothing happens. Nothing at all. I yawn so hard it feels like my face could split in two. My eyes tear.

There’s too much shit in the car for me to sleep on the back seat, so I crank the driver’s seat down as far as I can, pull some sheets and blankets out, and try to get comfortable. I leave the headlights on until I’m almost asleep, fading in and out. My eyes jerk open a few times when I think I hear someone talking. I don’t let myself imagine psycho killers with hook hands. It’s raccoon chatter. It’s just raccoon chatter, I know it.

When I do sleep, I dream about Matty. I’m hanging off a cliff. No rope, no sheets. I forgot my lifeline. He’s reaching for me. My hand can’t meet his. My fingers slip through soil, dirt falling in my face. I wake up screaming, body jolting against the seat like I’m landing hard.

After that, I can’t fall back to sleep. I play a game with myself counting out the minutes, then turning the car on to see what time it actually is.

When I check the clock at 5:32, I’m seven minutes short. I turn the car off, start counting again, but next thing I know I’m waking up and it’s bright and the windows are frosted inside and out. When I check the time, it’s 8:30. I stumble from the car, bundled in blankets and sheets.