Sarah

Driving in the rain is the pits. Especially up here, where one false move has an equal chance of wrapping you round a tree, slamming you into a rock face, or plunging you down a gully.

The rain’s deafening, but I can still hear my phone. It’s buzzing, again. Vince, of course. It’s never not Vince, any more. I quit sending everyone my new number after the third or fourth change. I drag my purse on top of my phone, but I can still hear the alerts, one after another.

I don’t have to look. I know the script:

babe?

where r u?

skyped you 3 times

pick up. pickuppickuppickup

where did you go?

i know where you are

dont make me come over there

please

i wont lose my temper

u owe me a chance

were not breaking up

didnt agree to that

answer ur FUCKING phone

bitch

“I blocked you!”

And now, I’m yelling at a phone.

Maybe he’s trying to drain my battery, so I won’t have a lifeline when he finds me.

I take a deep breath. The wipers whip back and forth. It’s almost soothing. Concentrate on that. Just that. Can’t be far now.

A sign whizzes by, too quick to read. It’s a big one, though. South Deerfield town limits? Turnoff for Conway should be a couple of miles down the road. I peer through the rain, but all I can see are the black lumps of cars, and what might be darkened storefronts beyond.

There’s a traffic light coming up. I slow down. I’m spacing out a little. The panic’s wearing off, and my lids are getting heavy. Soon, I’ll be curled up under one of Mom’s cheery quilts, with a hot cup of—

A set of high beams blazes to life just shy of the intersection. A truck peels off the curb. It nuzzles up behind me, practically kissing my bumper. I squint against the glare, but it’s no use. Can’t see a thing. I inch ahead, willing the light to turn green. Mr. Highbeams creeps up, too, and this time, I feel a nudge.

And my phone isn’t buzzing anymore.

My phone isn’t buzzing anymore!

“Vince!”

Lying in wait—he’s been lying in wait! He must’ve known the whole time, and—

I floor it through the light. The traffic cam flashes. I have a moment to hate the idea of my last close-up decorating a speeding ticket, before Vince fills my rearview mirror. He’s playing bumper-cars with my rental, the one I got so he wouldn’t see me leave. So much for that—and why didn’t I spring for insurance? Fuck!

Fuck!

I keep my palm to the horn all the way down Main Street. Maybe someone’ll be pissed enough to call the cops. I think I see a light flick on as I tear past a squat little building: success?

Vince slams me hard enough to spin me forty-five degrees. I accelerate into the skid—is that the right thing? Or am I thinking of flying? Accelerate into a dive; but do what for a skid? My mind is scrambled. Before the answer can come to me I’m bouncing over a parking block. I careen through a parking lot—old; deserted; potholed—and emerge on a street I don’t know.

I see sparks in my side mirror. Something’s hanging off my car, scraping on the asphalt. I will it to fall off. It doesn’t. If Vince didn’t see where I went, he’s sure to now. Those sparks are like a beacon: hey, psycho!

I spot another turnoff on the outskirts of town, barely more than a dirt road, and veer off at the last second, hoping Vince will hurtle past and have to double back. He doesn’t—and now we’re headed into the mountains. And my car’s starting to sputter. And he’s edging up beside me, and there isn’t room, and he’s going to run me off the road! He’s honestly going to kill me out here!

I don’t want to die like this.

I don’t want to die at all. And especially not out here.

I pump the gas, but Vince keeps pace. My back wheels lose their grip as he sideswipes me. There’s a blind curve coming up, and I swerve into it, knowing, just knowing there’ll be a deer, or an oncoming car, maybe a—

There’s nothing but open road.

I breathe in and out.

This isn’t how it all ends.

Vince is gaining again. On my left, there’s a wall of black rock; nothing but trees to the right. Pretty soon, Vince’ll hit me too hard. I’ll plow into one or the other—or be plowed into it—and—

(Don’t think about it.)

I scan for a place to pull over. The road only narrows ahead. I hit the window button, and am instantly drenched in driving rain.

“I’m trying to pull over,” I yell, loud as I can.

Vince bumps me again.

“Fucking give it a rest! Do you see a shoulder!?”

He can’t hear me. Of course he can’t. I stick my hand out the window, and instantly jerk it back as I feel myself losing control. It’s not like there’s a hand signal for “quit trying to ram me, you miserable psychopath,” anyway.

I scream around another hairpin turn, and there it is: a wide spot in the road. I aim for it, not daring to slow down. My eyes narrow involuntarily as I brace myself for a suicidal plunge into the bushes—but there’s nothing but mud and darkness ahead, a trail leading up the mountain.

Someone’s driveway—I’m on someone’s driveway. That means...that’s got to mean there’s a house up ahead with a phone, doors that lock, maybe a couple of big, mean dogs.

Vince hates dogs. Used to lose his mind when mine put his paws on his chest. Broke out that stupid lint-roller from his car.

Never trust a man who doesn’t love dogs.

Metal shrieks, as I scrape along the tree line. Something flies into the forest, either my side mirror, or somebody’s mailbox. Too dark to see.

Vince doesn’t make the turn. He whizzes by, but I know he’ll be back. My car grinds to a stop and I spill out. I think about running straight up the driveway, but Vince won’t be far behind, and I’m in heels. I don’t want to, but there’s no alternative.

I dart into the woods.

Surely, he won’t follow. It’s pitch dark under the trees. I’m navigating by touch. A person would have to be insane to leave the path. And I’m not the insane one. I’m the cautious type, the stick-to-the-path-at-all-costs type. He’ll be looking for me around the car, and I’ll be….

Don’t think about that.

I’ll be...absolutely fine. It’ll work out. It has to. I didn’t come this far to tumble down a scree, or get eaten by a bear.

Are there bears?

Of course there aren’t bears. Or if there are...there’s a better-than-average chance they’re asleep, or on another mountain, or sheltering from the rain...right?

My foot squelches in mud, and comes up without a shoe. I toe around for it, but it’s gone; it’s gone, and now I’m hobbling.

Worst. Hike. Ever.

I slog through mud and dead leaves, and something that feels like a patch of toadstools. Pretty soon, my bare foot is numb with cold. At least I haven’t stepped on anything sharp yet. I start sliding my feet along the ground to make sure I don’t.

From somewhere down the hill, I hear a car horn blast. Good. Vince isn’t on my heels. I could survive this. A little luck, a little persistence—

Lightning flashes. It leaves me with a brief afterimage of trees, more trees, and something that might be the roof of a shed, below me and to the right, at the foot of a steep drop-off.

Not that way then. I shuffle forward, slow and steady. Can’t stop thinking about that drop-off now, the possibility of stepping into nothing, falling—I can’t even see my hands in front of my face.

The house has to be farther uphill—or, at least, I think it does—so I focus on climbing. It’s not so bad. It’s dark, and it’s wet, but I haven’t crashed into a tree yet, or tripped over anything spiky or dead. Next time the lightning comes, I can—

Crack.

It’s struck a tree. It’s struck me. I’ll feel it, in a second, a billion volts boiling my blood.

I blink. Still dark. That...wasn’t lightning.

Vince.

He’s shooting at me! What the actual fuck—he’s shooting at me!

The last of my cool goes out the window, and I hurl myself up the hill, arms up, fending off branches, saplings, something that feels like a rotten curtain. My legs ache. My breath’s hot in my lungs. I’m not sure how long I’ve been running when the lightning hits again, and there it is, just ahead, a narrow path, with a few wooden steps set into it.

This has to be it—the way to the house.

I run for the steps, only to freeze in my tracks. Yeah—but whose house?

I don’t have a choice...do I?

I flatten myself against a tree, and concentrate on breathing. It’ll be fine. I’m practically in my parents’ neighborhood. No one gets turned into a human-skin coat in sight of Mom’s kitchen.

Sure they do.

Not helping. Not helping, at all.

I’m getting soaked out here. Don’t think this tree has any leaves.

The entire sky flashes, and this time, it’s not trees I see in front of me, and not an empty path. It’s a man, hollow-eyed, tall as a giant, brandishing the biggest gun I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t scream,” he says.

There doesn’t seem to be much point, so I don’t.