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The rust bucket jolts as it navigates the terrible roads. But a few miles in, the road’s surface smooths, and subdivisions, farms, and roadside stands disappear. We pick up elevation and the landscape turns remote.

The engine protests as the jalopy ascends a mountain. The higher we travel, the tighter the road becomes. Eventually, it narrows to one lane. If a vehicle appears from the opposite direction, I’ll have a heart attack, because there hasn’t been a place to turn the truck around in miles. Even if we wanted to, we can’t turn back.

“Are we rethinking this adventure yet?” Amelia rambles, she’s so nervous. “I thought I would die by falling down the stairs in an emerald-green Art Deco gown or, like, be kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera. I’d take a space opera at this point.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” I try to soothe her, even though my anxiety ratchets higher with each hairpin turn until we’re perched on the spinal ridge of a mountain and I’m driving three miles an hour. One wrong move, and we’ll roll down the hill like Jack and Jill, our garbage-pail truck rolling after.

“Sheer cliffage! Sheer cliffage!” Amelia shrieks.

She grips the holy-crap handle hanging from the truck’s ceiling. She peers over the edge, which offers a bird’s eye view of the entire island. If it weren’t so terrifying, it would be breathtakingly beautiful. She whimpers.

“Where’s my brave chicken-fighter? Where’s my terrifying siren queen?” I ask.

“You know I hate heights.” Her body shivers.

“Close your eyes.” I pat her knee, thinking it will help.

“Both hands on the wheel!” Amelia screams.

I slap my hand back on the steering wheel and focus. I will get her through this. I will get us through this. Determined, I release a steady breath.

Desperately remaining upbeat, I tell her, “We’re almost there. I can feel it.”

As soon as I say it, though, that’s when the truck sputters, the engine dies in a drawn-out whine, and the wheels slow to a creaky stop.

“What? No, no, no!” I cry and turn the key again, giving the engine gas, but it refuses to turn over. Beneath the hood, the motor chokes.

“Stop messing with me, Soph.” Amelia’s face turns so white, she’s translucent.

“I wish I was messing with you.” I sigh and cover my face with my hands.

“Try the engine again!” Her hands flutter frantically.

I do, several times, but each time delivers the same result. Amelia and I are officially stuck on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe she was right. Maybe we are going to die.

11/

giovanni

Homicidal Negotiations

Thirty minutes ago, I received a frantic text from Tina, who explained she was stuck on a mountaintop trailhead.

I’m not sure why she’d take a joyride in a restricted area only meant for hikers, but I know better than to question her. She was probably collecting a special flower for an art project or something.

Under the twilight sky, I ascend the mountain in the Jeep and clear the tree line, entering a different climate zone. Here there’s only dry bushes, red clay, and volcanic ash. To an outsider, it would feel like a Martian landscape. To me, it feels like my flower-picking theory about Tina was wrong.

A parked vehicle comes into view, but it’s not Tina’s shiny borrowed truck. It’s the jalopy. Sophia and Amelia sit on the open tailgate, legs swinging. When they see my headlights, they wave like they’re on a raft in the middle of the ocean and about to be saved.

“Well, this got a lot more interesting,” I mumble.

Moments ago, I was aggravated, but now I’m beyond thrilled at this unexpected development. With the jalopy broken down, my bargain to swap the bungalow for my Jeep is back in play.

I decide to turn on the charm tonight because I need to close this deal. Being nice to Sophia is a tactic I haven’t yet tried. I mean, not since the first time I tried to be nice.

The Jeep’s tires roll to a stop. In the headlights, Sophia’s giddiness fades, probably because she just realized who’s here to save her.