The wet asphalt swallows the car’s headlights as the broken line on the highway repeats like a racing heartbeat. It’s 3:12. My eyes burn with exhaustion, but the stale music on the radio is the only thing keeping me from nodding off at the wheel. I glance in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just absolute darkness cut by the red glow of my own taillights. I press the gas pedal a little harder, eager to reach the next gas station. Then, a burst of high beams completely blinds me.
A massive truck appears right up against my bumper, so close that I think I can hear the metallic roar of its engine devouring the air. Panic squeezes my chest; I turn on my turn signal and move into the right lane to let it pass. But the truck doesn’t pass. It stays right there, just a few centimeters away. Desperate, I press my face against the window and look in the side mirror again. The left lane is empty. No headlights. No truck. Just the muffled roar that reverberates through my teeth.
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