“Dude!” I backhanded him hard in the chest, paying him back for the gut shot earlier. Caspian groaned, shifted, but didn’t wake up. “Hey.” I grabbed his long, thinning hair, and twisted it. This was getting irritating; prank or not, I needed to get home. Cassie would begin to worry if I was out too late without my phone. I jerked his head harder and harder until I could hear strands of his hair ripping out by the roots.

Finally, he chuffed and raised his hand up defensively. “The fuck,” he said in a sleep-addled slur. Still gripping his hair, I turned his head to face me.

“Rise and shine.”

Caspian’s face seemed to register something for a second, then fell slack. His lids stayed open, but his eyes glazed over. There was nobody home. Either Caspian could no longer hold his liquor or he had been drugged. This was a performance that could not be faked.

I heard the rumbling of tires and watched as the approaching vehicle pulled over into the emergency lane behind us. Its headlights reflected off the rearview mirror, blinding me until I flipped the deflector. The engine was a loud, angry-sounding diesel. Judging by the general height of the hood and shape of the headlights it looked like a tow truck. It came to a stop several feet behind my rear bumper, brakes squealing, and then it released a frightening gasp of pressurized air. It was impossible to see past the blinding lights into the windshield.

“Don’t worry,” that smug DJ had said. “Help is on the way.”

“Goddamnit, Caspian. I don’t have time for this shit. Wake up, you asshole.”

I didn’t expect him to respond. I just wanted to hear my own voice. See how steady it sounded. Try and enforce some dominion over the present situation, which was feeling less and less under my control.

The truck rumbled, its glaring headlights casting a spotlight into my car, making me feel exposed and vulnerable. I turned and faced the truck head on, giving my best Fuck You face. Wanting to exhibit a little confidence. Show that I wasn’t about to cower or be pushed around.

The engine cut off, but the lights remained on. Both doors opened and two men exited the cabin at the exact same time, their movements synchronized. Backwoods mechanics, by the looks of them. A matching pair wearing denim overalls, striped shirts with rolled-up sleeves, and cotton engineer caps. Older men. Late fifties, early sixties. Thick, wide-rim glasses obscured their eyes. Dark blotches stained their forearms. My eyes flitted back and forth. They looked identical. What the fuck were the odds of identical twins arriving the instant my car broke down to tow it away?