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It takes all of two hours into my nine-hour drive before I start questioning my life choices.

Specifically, this life choice.

Not that I haven’t prepared to the best of my ability, I remind myself for the tenth time.

The cats are on vacation at Auntie Sienna’s house, so I don’t need to worry about them. I have a backpack full of clothes and whatever else I thought I’ll need for at least three days without re-wearing anything. Though maybe a small duffel bag would’ve been the smarter answer, I think ruefully.

There’s gas in my car.

My stomach is not too upset from the chicken nuggets still making my car smell like the inside of the fast food place I grabbed them from.

And the music is loud enough to blast out my eardrums and cause my smartwatch to worry pretty dramatically.

You’re fine, I tell myself. You can turn around whenever you want and go home.

But that’s a lie, and even the thought turns sour in my mind, causing my hands to tighten on the steering wheel of my small, dependable car.

Either way, I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing, I reason to myself as my mind drifts back to examine the last few weeks under a mental microscope.

For a month, I’ve been living my normal life, trying to go back to it.

For a month, I’ve been lying to Sienna and telling her that I’m completely fine, that there’s nothing I want to talk to her about.

For a month, I’ve been lying to myself, and I just can’t do it anymore.

A groan leaves me and I thump my head back against the headrest. I’m not tired, seeing as driving for hours and hours is my one pretty useless super power. Really, I missed my life’s calling as a long-haul truck driver. With just a sniff of coffee, I can make it six hours without blinking. If I pour a cup of it down my throat, I’m pretty much unstoppable.

And unable to shut my eyes, even with a crowbar.

By hour eight, I’m wondering what the hell is so interesting about the southwestern corner of Arkansas, and I’m screaming along to my 2000s emo music so loudly and with so much dedication that I miss my turnoff.

Twice .

But it doesn’t stop me from belting out some of my favorite, questionable songs that I now realize probably weren’t so appropriate for a pre-teen back when I heard them the first time.

Especially the one that I’m now pretty sure is all about road head . To my surprise, that’s the one I remember most of the words to, and I refuse to look into what kind of problem that is as I try not to let it influence the speed of my driving on the dark rural highway.

My first thought as I pass signs for Stamps and Texarcana is that Arkansas really does have interesting naming conventions for their towns.

My second thought is that my poor car is going to get totaled by the deer trying to commit suicide as it jumps out of the woods to my right.

Thankfully, there are no other cars around to make this worse, so I slam my brakes and successfully swerve around the deer enough that it’ll have to choose another way to leave this mortal coil. Patting myself on the back while also hyperventilating, I cruise to a stop in the parking lot of a 24 hour truck stop-slash-diner. The neon lights of the window garishly light up my car, and I take a moment to just sit .

Finally, I decide it’s been too long since my last pee break, and since I’d prefer not to do long-term kidney damage with my overconsumption of caffeine today mixed with not enough bathroom breaks, I shove my way out of my car and into the truck stop itself.

Blinking, I can’t help my surprise at how lively it is. More than half of the tables on the diner side are filled with couples and families, and there are a fair share of customers perusing the convenience store side that’s filled with generic, overpriced travel pack meds and candy.

Post-bathroom break, I find myself with them as well. Like a zombie, I grab the first bottle of iced coffee out of the fridge that I can find, along with a few bags of chocolate-covered caramel that will keep me going for at least another few hours. After all, I doubt my night will end just because the GPS gods tell me I’ve found my destination.

The lady at the counter eyes me with what might be concern, and I only beam at her with an expression I hope doesn’t seem like a cry for help. “Lots of people here,” I remark as she robotically rings up my choice of unhealthy offerings. “I would’ve thought since this isn’t on a main road?—”

“They’re from the campsites.” The woman sighs, cutting me off like she’s heard this narrative of a question a million times before. “Four of ‘em around here. We get the failed fishers, the families needing a break from building fires, and whatever.”

I blink a few times at her words, wondering if maybe I’m the one who’s confused. “In…December?” I ask delicately. I don’t want to upset this truck stop overlord. Especially while she’s holding my precious, cheap as hell knockoff coffee in her manicured fingers.

“Not that cold here,” the woman tells me, bagging up my purchase as I insert my card into the chip reader. “Lots of people like the idea of ‘Christmas camping.’ They set up little decorations and lights around their tents and RVs.”

It seems like early December is too far from Christmas to theme a campsite around it, or for kids to be out of school, but what do I know? Instead, I just smile and nod, waiting for the ancient machine to take its damn time with processing my payment.

“Plus, there’s a festival in town this weekend. Lots of families come for the lighting of the Christmas tree and their annual little market.” She still sounds just as bored as she says it, and I wonder if that’s a reflection of her personal opinion of the festival, or just her view on life in general around here.

“Thank you so much.” My smile directed at her isn’t returned, unsurprisingly, but I take my bag gently from the counter and walk out the door. There’s no way Val and Kieran are here for a Christmas tree festival in some small town…right?

That doesn’t seem like something they’d do, and I shiver in the crisp night air once I’m outside again. It was definitely colder in Nashville, and I’m glad I’m trekking halfway across the southern side of the country, as opposed to into the northern side where I’d probably need a parka or a team of sled dogs.

Though maybe that’s just me being dramatic after almost nine hours of driving mostly all at once, on a whim.

“You can do this.” I sigh, once I’m back in my car and cracking open the glass bottle of cold coffee. A peek at my GPS says I’m only fifteen minutes from wherever it is I’m going, so I settle back in the driver’s seat and tell myself at least three more times that I’m almost done before pulling back onto the deserted highway and following the directions of the helpful, if pushy, GPS system.

When I pull up to the deserted campground, I hesitate for a few moments. Am I really, really about to get out of the car, in the dark, at some place that looks like a horror film set?

The answer to that question really shouldn’t surprise me. Especially since I’m already stuffing the last two caramels into my cheeks like a chipmunk and chasing them down with the last of my bottle of coffee. With my headlights on, I can see the old, dilapidated sign of Sunny Lake Campground , though with the u mostly missing, along with part of the y , it reads more like Sinn Lake Campground .

Which definitely feels ominous and appropriate to me right about now.

For a few moments, I sit in my cooling car, the night air quickly stealing away the warmth right out of my open door. I can’t help hesitating. I can’t help worrying , as the last rational part of me tries to make a stand.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

Maybe I should at the very least wait until morning. While I’m not actively afraid of the dark, I definitely have a healthy dose of uncertainty about a place like this.

“Let’s do that,” I mutter to myself, sitting back against the seat and almost wilting with relief. I’m not giving up. Not at all. I’m just?—

A shape cuts across the light of my headlights, causing me to bolt upright. While my eyes track the movement and search for where it’s gone, another, slower figure cuts into the lights.

This one doesn’t run.

The figure turns to look at me, and my headlights illuminate a black and white, skull-like mask and the sheen of a knife held in a glove-covered fist.

For so many long seconds I stare at that mask, the familiarity bringing back every memory I’d tried to pretend didn’t matter in the last month. Time seems to stop, and I feel him staring at me. I feel the gaze behind the mask on me, and somehow, even if I didn’t know this mask, I would know whose face lies behind it.

Ravage.