The "Ghost Roads" were aptly named.
They weren't roads so much as scars cut into the mountainside by logging companies decades ago. They were narrow, winding, and hemmed in by dense forests on one side and a sheer drop into the fog on the other.
Our convoy moved like a funeral procession—slow, silent, and heavy with dread.
I sat in the passenger seat of the lead armored SUV, my hand resting on the dashboard as if I could steady the vehicle through the rough terrain myself. In the back, Maya was humming a low, tuneless melody to keep Leo calm.
But Leo wasn't calm.
He had been crying for an hour. Not a hungry cry, or a tired cry. It was a high-pitched, distressed wail that grated on every nerve ending I had. He kept rubbing his ears, his little face scrunching up in pain.
"He he
