Six Miles to SuringJacklynn M. Desmond
The headlights’ grit-etched glow barely cut through the mid-November darkness, glancing off wet pavement as leaves skittered across the road, like angry mice. The old two-door sedan growled and groaned to get though their wake.
Behind the jalopy’s wheel, Sara blinked hard to stay focused in that dim light, and the orange threats from her dashboard. One said to check her engine, one said to check her oil, the scariest one said she was running on fumes on an abandoned county road in the middle of nowhere.
“Just a little bit further,” Sara muttered to herself, or prayed to the car; at this point she didn’t know. Maybe the car would listen. No one else seemed to. “Suck it up, girlie,” she said, and ran her bandaged hand through her hair in frustration,
