Page 35

Nine.
Josh notices the trooper, too, because he taps the brakes a moment, bringing them below the speed limit.
“You sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
A fresh bloom of fog spreads onto the window. Charlie counts again.
Another nine seconds.
Not a lot of time. But possibly enough.
She runs a finger along the glass, moving it in a pattern, tracing letters that don’t exist.
Yet.
Charlie turns toward Josh, making sure his eyes are still on the road. Then it’s back to the window, her forehead meeting glass, looking backward to track the state trooper’s progress. When the police car’s front bumper runs parallel to the Grand Am’s back one, she gets to work.
“I’m feeling better already,” she says. “Cooling my forehead helps.”
The twin huffs from those last two words create a circle of fog twice the size of the previous ones. The countdown begins.
Nine.
Charlie does another quick check of Josh.
Eight.
She returns to the window.
Seven.
She twists her body, blocking Josh’s view.
Six.
She presses the tip of her index finger to the glass and begins to write.
Five.
The first letter is three quick lines in the fog.
Four.
Another letter, this time one long line followed by three short bursts.
Three.
And another—two quick slashes.
Two.
The final letter. A slash and a swoop.
One.
The fog vanishes, taking with it the word she’d managed to scrawl.