Mickey sped up. A mile later, there were two of them. Then four. Then a dozen. They stood on the crests of the hills, silhouetted against the stars, their heads turning in unison to track the Jeep. Not hostile. Not hunting. Just observing , with a patience that felt older than the asphalt.
“Lena?” he shouted, his voice swallowed by the absolute silence. doug hills have eyes
He took his father’s old Jeep, the one with the cracked windshield and the high beams that flickered. The asphalt turned to gravel, then to dirt that glowed pale blue under a quarter moon. The land rose on either side—low, scrubby hills, dotted with creosote and the skeletons of saguaro. Mickey sped up