His gaze snaps between the rearview mirror and the road in front of us, which is only mostly straight. The needle inches toward 90 as we pass two cars, and I pray to God there are no moose out tonight.

“Where’d you learn to punch like that?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Rolan. Vasilescu,” he says, eyes on the road.

“There’s a turn coming up. There—” I say. It’s followed seconds later by a far sharper left. We go another mile in tense silence, pass two more cars, one of which honks loudly as we whiz by. Luka’s headlights never leave the rearview mirror. He’s alternating between speeding closer and dropping back, but only by a matter of feet.

Twenty minutes ago I was actually looking forward to a night of frozen pizza and the last two episodes of Roswell, season one. Debating whether or not to attempt to sleep in the bedroom like a normal person. I’d even considered leaving a coating of flour by the front door just so I’d know by morning whether I wandered out in the middle of the night. Now I’m in a car with a complete stranger who knows more about my past than I do, fleeing a murderer I ate lunch with two days ago. I glance at Rolan. His expression is grim.

“Once we get to Kokadjo, we run out of pavement,” I say. I know because Clare and I once drove to the northern outpost, where the trees thin around the open expanse of river that runs through a hunting and fishing hub so small the population is listed as “not many” on the sign.

With one hand on the wheel, he reaches into his jacket, and for a second I wonder if he’s going to pull out a gun. He produces a phone instead, unlocks it with his thumb, and flips it at me.

“Pull up the map. Look for the next good bend.”

I do my best, but the map twitches and zooms beneath the involuntary tremor of my fingers, refusing to refresh, the signal lost.

“Hurry.”

I close my eyes, retrace the drive that day with Clare. “Another mile—maybe two,” I say.

“One mile or two?” he snaps.

“Two. The road goes left, south of Kokadjo at a fork. A dirt road goes right along the south edge of the pond.”

I open my eyes and he glances at me, but he doesn’t question me, either.

Lily Bay Road has by now turned into generic Main Street, briefly straightening out before us. Rolan guns it. The speedometer hovers around 97. The headlights in the rearview mirror fade around the last bend as we come up on a car, ride its bumper, unable to see oncoming traffic.