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“You’ve made this trip before?” I question.

“Five times.” His eyes catch mine in the mirror—darting contact, there and gone. “Last driver made six. There was no seventh trip.”

“Listen,” Jason’s voice drops to something between a prayer and a plea. “When you get out, follow the path exactly. Don’t wander. Don’t pick any flowers, especially the red ones. Don’t eat or drink anything offered unless you want them to trap you there. If you hear singing, plug your ears and run. If you see dancing lights, look away.”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Interesting additions to standard navigation protocol.”

“Official channels don’t believe half of what happens out here. The Academy plays nice with your government because it has to, but they’re not...” words fail him, his mouth working around shapes it can’t form, “...they’re not like us.”

“And the unofficial channels?”

His laugh shatters like glass. “The kind that keep me alive and awake at night. The kind that were here before us and will be here after us. The kind that doesn’t die easily and doesn’t forget anything.”

The vehicle slams into something unseen. My teeth rattle. Jason curses—words that sound like prayers in another language—as he wrestles the SUV onto the narrow shoulder.

The engine coughs once, twice, then dies with a whimper.

“Shit.” He twists the key again. Nothing but silence. His shoulders collapse. “We’ll have to stop here. It’s close enough.”

“Close enough isn’t the drop point.” The words come automatically while my senses catalog our surroundings with desperate, frantic pressure.

Jason barks a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Yeah, well, our options are limited to here or wherever this thing decides to die completely.” He pats the dashboard with oddly affectionate resignation. “Fourth transmission this year. I keep telling them to stop using anything manufactured after 1985 for these runs, but no one listens to the driver.”

“You’re the expert on... whatever this is?” I gesture toward the increasingly impossible forest.

“Expert?” His laugh is more genuine this time. “Lady, I’m just the idiot who answered a classified ad for specialty courier because it paid triple my old trucking gig.” He yanks open the glove compartment, pulling out a battered flask and taking a swig before offering it to me. “My résumé said nothing about haunted forests or trees that follow you with their branches.”

I shake my head at the offered flask. “They don’t brief you either?”

“Oh, they brief you. Just nothing useful.” He does a startlingly accurate impression of a bureaucratic monotone, “Adhere to designated coordinates. Maintain schedule integrity. Avoid conversational engagement regarding destination specifics.” His normal voice returns. “Nothing about what to do when the GPS starts showing locations that don’t exist or when you see things dancing between the trees that definitely aren’t deer. Not deer I tell you!”

The slam of a car door shocks me enough to follow him out into the warm twilight air.

Jason pulls my bags from the trunk, his movements jerky. His boots never stray more than an arm’s length from thevehicle. “Path starts there,” he points to what looks like a deer trail vanishing between ancient trees. “About two miles. You can’t miss it.”

“Can’t miss what?” My voice emerges hollow and unfamiliar.

“The boundary. You’ll know when you cross it.” He shoves a flashlight into my hand. His fingers are ice-cold, trembling. “They’ll be expecting you.”

“The Academy staff?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “The ones you’re supposed to meet, sure. But nothing happens there that they all don’t know about. Eyes everywhere. In the walls, in the trees, in the shadows.” His eyes flicker to the forest and back, haunted by something he won’t name.

He hesitates, glancing at the darkening forest, then back to me. “My grandma was from Connemara,” he says abruptly. “Used to tell me stories about the Good Folk. Said if you ever had to deal with them, always carry salt in your left pocket and iron in your right.” He pulls something from his jacket—a small leather pouch and a railroad spike—and holds them out. “Probably bullshit, but it’s kept me alive for five trips.”

The iron spike sears my palm, flesh blistering. I bite my tongue to keep from dropping it

“Thoughtful. Though I’ve always been more of a steel girl myself.” The truth helps mask my reaction—steel doesn’t burn like iron does.

“Steel might not cut it where you’re going,” he says, studying my face with sudden intensity.

“Good thing I don’t plan on needing it.” I pocket both items despite the iron’s continued burn against my palm.

“Don’t thank me.” His expression turns grim. “Just... come back human.”

“That’s the plan.” I pause, meeting his haunted eyes. “What makes you think I might not?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, climbs back into his vehicle and starts it back up. I glance back once to see the SUV’s taillights fleeing, tires spitting gravel in desperation. Jason’s fear no longer seems irrational.