First

After my parents died, I was afraid of cars. I was a sophomore in high school, at that perfect age to get my driver’s permit. I wasn’t in the car with them when the accident happened. So my debilitating fear probably sounds crazy. My therapists all said it was to be expected. Assured me it would pass.

But it really didn’t. Every time I had to ride somewhere, I’d shut my eyes and try to keep from hyperventilating the entire way there. The first time I rode the bus to school, I puked and Dally had to walk me home because I wouldn’t get in his car when he came to pick me up.

My problem was hard on Jake. Caught playing grown-up at far too early an age, he didn’t know what to do. He argued with me, cajoled, bribed, and threatened. He tried to force me to change.

Dally went out and bought a motorcycle.

It was the three month anniversary of the accident when he walked in, threw a helmet in my lap, and said, ‘You’ve got two minutes to meet me outside, brown eyes.’ Against my will, he took me for ice cream.

Eventually I got used to riding with him. He started taking me to look at cars. We settled on a beat-up ’69 Camaro, a choice Jake was incredibly amused by. Dally walked me through the restoration piece by piece. When we were done, Old Blue had come to life in the garage.

Putting her together, seeing how everything fit, helped me come to terms with the fact that my parents’ accident wasn’t due to a failure on the car’s fault. It was simply what it had been called: an accident. A perfect storm. Nearly one year, a classic car, some driving lessons, a learner’s permit, and too many motorcycle rides to count, I wasn’t scared any more.

I need that same sense of peace now. That’s why I’m out here on the back roads off the coast, driving in the cool midnight of a Californian summer’s night. Old Blue purrs along, promising me that the open road will put my mind at ease, that I’ll find all those answers I’m looking for.

I’m graduating college. I am now an adult. I’m supposed to get a job, a boyfriend, and a cute apartment I can decorate with IKEA products. Instead, I’m feeling the same sense of weightlessness I felt back in high school. A disconnection from the world around me.

In high school, since Jake worked all the time, the person who kept me grounded was Dally. I’ve lost him though.

I crack my window and let the fresh air wash over me, wishing it would clear my mind. Everything’s so tangled. I bet the magazines would pay to get this losing-my-virginity horror story on their glossy pages. It can’t possibly get any worse—

Old Blue sputters.

‘No, no, no,’ I say, looking over her display for the first time in a while. Oil level’s fine. Engine’s fine. Gas … not fine. Empty, in fact.

That smug jack-off Murphy can kiss my ass.

The tank has been run dry. I manage to coast her to the side of the quiet road I’m on. Her tires crunch on the gravel as she comes to a slow halt. The engine dies with a sad wheeze and I pat Old Blue’s dash, hoping she’s not too angry with me for my foolishness.

Now what the hell do I do? My cell phone has reception at least, although it’s extended coverage. I try to pull up the map app, but my connection is so slow I can see my battery life being sucked away. At least I get a vague idea of where I am before I close out the app.

I try calling Maya first. Her phone goes to voicemail. Not unusual for her; she always shuts her phone off completely when she sleeps. Although I’m not eager to do it, I try Jake next. His phone also goes to voicemail.

‘Hey, Jake. Give me a call.’

I put my phone down and look around me. The moon is high overhead, so I can actually see pretty well. Not that there’s much to see. I try Jake again after a few minute of boredom.

Again, to voicemail. ‘When you get this, call me. I’m fine, but Old Blue’s having some problems.’

I settle back in my seat and snag the beach towel I left out here to cover my legs. I catnap for about twenty minutes and try my brother again.

‘Come on,’ I plead when it goes directly to voicemail again. ‘Stop being an ass.’ I hang up with a sigh and thunk my head against the seat’s headrest.

My phone beeps and I glance down. Ten percent left. Aw, squirrel nuts.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel. How far could it possibly be to walk somewhere for gas?

Too damn far, my flip-flops warn. My womanly gut—which reminds me of the high probability of being picked up by a serial killer and left littered along the California coastline were I to hitchhike—also sides with the flip-flops. Desperation is on the fence. Two and a half to none … the stay puts have it.

I’m running out of options. Think positive, Cat.

At least the moonlight is nice. This countryside could almost be considered pretty, with the coastal fog spread out over the fields and that old barn standing watch on the hill.

Too bad it looks more like a zombie movie waiting to happen. I shudder and eye the barn. The cow painted on the side is beginning to look vaguely demonic. Who would paint that on there? Is it to lull visitors into a false sense of security? Maybe it belongs to a cannibal family who keep zombies for pets, using them like hunting dogs …

Jake is unreachable. Maya is too. I’ve got one choice left. But surely there has to be another option—

I look back at my phone. Seven percent.