At first, I thought there were cars—but it was just the huge semis, which had melted into car-sized lumps. So far, at least, nothing here was on fire, though smoke was rising from some of the lumps. I thought it wise not to linger. I parked near the edge and had a thought: surely there must be other cars as old as mine? I drove my grandfather’s 1949 Mercury, not that it looked that old, anymore. Gramps had customized it and kept it in great running order. When he’d passed away, three years ago, it had become mine, and was now my most valuable possession.
I shrugged it off—trying to know why and what and how would just confuse me and not help anything. Other than some muffled thumps and some continuing dinging sounds, it was so silent, so dark. I went straight to the door of the truck stop
