But something unfolds from the driver’s seat—something that remembers being a person but has forgotten why. It stands on two legs, but they bend the wrong way. It turns its head toward you, and you understand: the road didn’t trick you. The road was waiting.
At mile marker 4 (or is it 7? the numbers are scratched beyond reading), you pass the first car. It’s pulled off on the shoulder—if you can call mud and pine needles a shoulder. A sedan, dark blue, windows fogged from the inside. No plates. You slow down. Something tells you not to stop. wrong turn m4p
No one gets out.