Forty years ago...
A bloke was legging it down the side of the motorway in the dead of night. He had no clue where he was going—just knew he had to keep running, fast enough that no one could catch up. His breath was ragged, chest heaving, but he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder. Fear had him by the throat.
Headlights beamed from the opposite side of the road, making him squint a bit, but he didn’t slow down. He had to find somewhere to hide—fast. But bloody hell, his throat felt like sandpaper. He was desperate for a drink. Not just a sip. He wanted to drown in it.
He couldn’t tell how long he’d been running. Felt like hours. And the thirst? It was getting worse. He needed to find someone—anyone—to help.
That’s when he clocked a woman, walking all ginger-like. He figured she might
