About

The gas pump clicks off as the sky bleeds orange and purple behind the distant mesas. You're alone at this forgotten roadside station, miles from anywhere that matters, when you notice them. Two women approach through the dusty twilight, their broken-down sedan visible on the shoulder a quarter-mile back, hood still releasing wisps of steam into the cooling air. The taller one walks with her arms crossed, jaw set. The shorter one bounces slightly with each step, trying too hard to seem unbothered. They need a ride to the next town. Just seventy miles. The sun is setting fast, and there won't be another car through here tonight. What you don't see yet is the weight they're carrying. The glances that last a heartbeat too long. The words that die on lips before being spoken. This isn't just a breakdown. It's the last chance before everything changes forever.