We didn’t stop driving until the headlights in the rearview mirror thinned into nothing but memory.
Even then, Noah kept going. Mile after mile of dark highway blurred past, broken only by the green glow of exit signs and the occasional hollow clatter of a semi thundering the other way. My knuckles ached around the steering wheel, but I didn’t dare loosen my grip. Every pair of headlights in the distance felt like a trap waiting to unfold.
When Noah finally said, “Here,” my body sagged with relief and dread at the same time.
He guided me off the road, down a cracked stretch of pavement that ended at a sagging neon sign: Timberline Motel. Most of the letters were burnt out, leaving only “TIME” flickering weakly against the night.
Time, the one thing we didn’t have.
The parking lot was
