Page 55 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“Of course it is,” I mutter, climbing into the passenger seat and tossing my duffel to the back.

“What do you want to start with?”

He holds open one of the bags to show the assortment of snacks. It hits me suddenly that I don’t want any of them. I don’t want food at all, actually.

“What is it?” he asks, catching my frown.

“I’m not hungry. Except…We haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. I should be starving. I’m always hungry.” A brittle laugh escapes as I meet Luke’s eyes, swallowing down panic. “Why am I not hungry?”

His eyes betray a hint of worry. “Hunger for food is a very mortal feeling. Hunger here is different. Hell beings can go weeks without food, or at least whatever food is for them.”

“Is that what’s happening?” I suck in a breath. “We’ve only been here two days. Am I turning into a hell being already?”

“No.” The word is finite and convincing. “This is your body trying to adapt. You need to eat. Force yourself. That’s another key to staying human. You need to do everything exactly as you would if you were in the overworld.”

He starts driving and I start eating. I stuff my face with chips and crackers and down a full bottle of water, polishing everything off with a packet of crushed Oreos I find in the pocket of my duffel. By the time we’re on Route 66, the floor beneath my feet is littered with empty bags and used napkins. I’m full, I think. Or, at least, I should be.

But every bite was less appealing than the last.

Eighteen

“Why are we stopping?” I ask hours later, jolting out of another doze. A sign beside the road reads “Welcome to the Customer Support Department.” In the distance, the skyline glows with what look like office buildings. I glance down at the map, doing some quick calculations to guess we’re somewhere near Tulsa, Oklahoma. Not even halfway to Death Valley.

Luke grunts in frustration. “Because I’m falling asleep at the wheel.”

Duh. “You’re going on what, sixty hours without sleep? At least? You said it yourself. To stay human, you need to do human things.”

His mouth flatlines in annoyance that I’m throwing his own advice back at him, but the exhaustion is evident in his features. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, and bags rest beneath them that rival my own. Even his posture is slumped.

“I don’t need long,” he promises. “We can get a room here, eat some dinner, and rest for a few hours. I’ll make up the time on the road so we get to Beliar by sundown tomorrow.”

I follow him out of the car, staring at the blinking neon sign before us advertising a motel and tavern. I’m less hungry than ever, but it’s been nearly eight hours since we left Chicago and I ate the snacks. Still, stopping feels like wasting precious time.

“I can take over,” I offer. Without waiting for his rebuttal, I slide into the driver’s seat. The AC stopped working halfway through our journey earlier, so I lean out his open window. “Get in.”

He doesn’t move. “It’s dark.”

“I can see that,” I say, though my vision is questionable. I’ve never been great about taking my contacts out every night, something I’ve been warned will likely make me go blind someday, but three days is pushing it even for me. They feel fused onto my eyeballs, and not in a good way.

“You don’t like driving in the dark.”

Don’t like is an understatement of epic proportions. But the idea of sitting through a meal I once would have devoured and now can hardly stomach is enough to make me reconsider facing my fear. “We’ve barely passed anyone on the road,” I say. “I think I can manage for a few hours.”

Luke relents quicker than expected and gets into the passenger seat, a sign of his bone-deep exhaustion. I start the van, adjust the mirrors, and shift it into drive before I can overthink it. Slowly, I turn out of the gravel lot and onto the dark road.

No streetlights. Fissures in the cracked pavement. Trees towering on either side. It’s all familiar, eerily so. As if hell is taunting me.

“Is your seat belt on?” I ask Luke, but my voice is pinched and breathy. Panicky. It’s like a brick sits on my chest, a whole stack. As if the street isn’t dark enough already, my vision dims. The lights of the nearby buildings feel thousands of miles away.

“It is.” Luke’s voice is measured. “You can pull over.”

“I’m fine.” I am so not fine. It’s evident in the quiver behind my words, the sweat soaking my palms. I can’t catch my breath for shit.

“It’s okay, Brie. Just stop the van.”

I do the opposite. I jerk the wheel, tires screeching as I pull a U-ey, and zoom back into the parking lot of the motel we just vacated. I barely made it a tenth of a mile down the road. I throw the van into park and plunge my head into my arms folded against the steering wheel. The horn gives a pathetic honk as the cherry on top.

The sound of my gasps fills the car, despite how hard I dig my teeth into the skin of my forearm to staunch them. “I’m sorry,” I shake out, but it’s too close to a sob. I’m fucking twenty-seven and having a panic attack. I hate this. I hate that after all these months since the accident, I still can’t handle driving after dark. “I’m so sorry.”