You don’t stop.

At mile 11, you pass a second car. Same model. Same fogged windows. This one has its hazard lights on. The rhythm is wrong—slow, then fast, then slow again, like a heartbeat having a seizure.

Now you have it.

The sedan’s door opens.

Your phone shows no service. The radio picks up only one station: static with a voice underneath, repeating numbers. Or maybe names. Or maybe nothing.