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I press down on the gas, gripping the steering wheel. The mountain rises up on my left, a vast expanse of stone and scrubby pine trees. To my right, there’s only emptiness, a massive and precipitous drop into a valley. Every few minutes, I pass a Warning: Falling Boulders sign, which is not exactly what I would call reassuring. Neither is the fact that my car can barely heave itself up the incline.

I’ve never really liked the mountains, truth be told.

I keep on, though. In my meandering backroads journey, I have passed the occasional gas station of the sort that it is safe for me to stop at, or at least safer: run-down, small, operated by some squinted-eyed mountain man who seems like he’s actively trying to scare me off. I don’t scare easily, though. I’m especially not scared of human men trying to act tough.

Right now, heading to Clifwell? Cameras are a bigger threat than a rapist. I know how to get away from a predator. My mom and sister saw to that.

My car’s engine groans as I tilt up another particularly steep patch of road. But I also see a flash of unnatural color up ahead.

It’s a faded, peeling billboard, weathered but still readable: Backwoods Gas and Go 3. 5 miles. A red arrow pointing the way—as if there’s any doubt, given the mountain face on one side and nothing on the other.

“Oh, thank fuck,” I whisper, pressing harder on the gas. My car creaks ominously, although I’m not too worried about getting stranded. I can hike three and a half miles. Besides, my phone has plenty of bars up here, and Adrian will pick me up if he has to. Not happily, mind. But he’ll do it.

The road levels out a bit, and I breathe a little easier, winding through the aspens, branches already bare. Another sign for the Backwoods Gas and Go flashes by: Almost there! it says in cheery lettering. On your right. I just hope they’re open. The signs look pretty beat up.

Another couple of minutes pass. My stomach protests the gross injustice of having not been fed since this morning, when I ate the last of my provisions after sleeping in my car at a secluded scenic outlook. I find myself wondering what sort of food this Gas and Go might have. If I’m lucky, it’ll be equipped with one of those rotating hot dog roasters. My mouth waters at the thought.

The road curves a little, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, the gas station appears. It doesn’t look great, as far as gas stations go. Run-down, only two gas pumps, an empty parking lot. The building kind of disappears into the trees. But “not great” means “perfect” for my needs, and I swing my car around to pull into the gravel lot. I park next to the entrance. There is, blessedly, a neon OPEN sign glowing in the window.

I cut the engine and take stock of my situation. My knife, a gift from my mother on my thirteenth birthday, is tucked away in my purse. My phone has service, and I tuck it into my pocket, just to be on the safe side. I still have plenty of cash, of course. This is not a trip where you pay for anything with a credit card.

It’s a relief to get out of the car. I might not like the mountains much, but I can’t deny the thin air is crisp and cool against my skin. It reminds me of my childhood, although not of training with my sister. Instead, I think about what happened after, the bloody rituals and prayers in the raspy language of my family’s dark gods. There’s that same shadowed chilliness, and it smells like autumn, like the slow end of things. Like burning leaves, like fireplace smoke, like apple fritters.

God, I could go for an apple fritter about now.

I step into the gas station. A bell rings overhead, and I do my usual casing for cameras. I see one for sure, tucked into the corner, and another over by a rack of Powerball cards that looks like it’s meant to be hidden. I scowl. This place is barely standing on its foundations, but they manage two fucking cameras?

There’s also no one at the cash register. Maybe that’s why. I think of the building, how it seemed bigger than this cramped little shop. Probably someone lives out back, just wants to come to the front when they have to. Well, I can deal with that, I suppose. It’s one stop on the whole trip, and I doubt those cameras link up to the local sheriff’s department.

Still, the less time I spend in here, the better. There is, unfortunately, no hot dog roaster, but there is a little refrigerated case with some premade sandwiches. And of course there are the usual gas station staples: potato chips, bean dip, gummy worms, French burnt peanuts. I load up as much as I can carry and cart it up to the front counter.

Still no cashier. I frown, crane my neck to look behind the register. It’s a typical setup, with a shelf of cigarettes and chewing tobacco and vape pens. A couple of porno mags, too, wrapped in opaque covers. I didn’t think those even existed anymore.

“Hello?” I call out. There’s no bell or anything for me to ring. “I’m ready to check out.”

A long, creaking silence. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and my adolescent training kicks in. Trust your instinct, my mother would tell me as she drove me and my sister out to the deep woods. You’re a prey animal, and instinct is all you have.

My sister, of course, got very different advice.

My instinct isn’t going haywire right now, though. Something feels off, but I also don’t sense danger—more just inconvenience.

“Hey, I’m kind of in a hurry!” I call out again, reaching into my purse. I’m going for my wallet, but I let my knuckles graze against my knife, too. It’s a curved kukri knife with my name carved into the steel of the blade. Penelope. A woman famous for waiting around for a man.

I pull out my wallet, telling myself I’m giving them one more minute before I⁠—

“I can’t come out right now.”

The voice that spills out of the back room is distinctly male: low and gravelly and with an oddly formal cadence I don’t quite know how to place.

“Um, how much longer do you think…?” I call back, feeling antsy. My instinct starts winding up a little.

“A while. Leave twenty dollars on the counter, and we’ll be even.”

I look down at all the food I gathered up. I have no idea how much any of it costs. Twenty dollars seems low, though.

“You sure?” I ask, and I don’t know why. I need to get out of here.

“Yes, it’s fine.” Something flickers behind the counter, and I lean forward to see a door back there, cracked open. No sign of the speaker, at least not until a shadow moves across the doorway.