I press the gas, heart pounding.
The truck accelerates too.
Okay.Okay.Panic hits me like cold water.
I’m not imagining this.This is real.Something is wrong.
I reach for my phone blindly with one hand, never taking my eyes off the mirror.My fingers swipe across the screen, but the phone slips from my grip, bouncing off the center console and hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Shit.”
I can’t reach it.Not without taking my eyes off the road.Not without slowing down.
The truck edges closer, the engine growling like something angry.
Then it hits me.Not hard.Not yet.Just a tap.
A warning.
A cold spike of fear slices through me.
“Stop,” I whisper, voice shaking.“Please stop.”
Another tap.Harder.
My car swerves slightly, tires gripping for stability.He’s playing with me.Or her.Or whoever is behind that glass.
This isn’t accidental.This isn’t random.
The realization floods me with a dizzy wave of horror.
I flick on my hazards, slam my hand onto the horn, hoping — praying — that someone, anyone, hears me.But there are no houses here.No cars.Just trees and darkness and the awful taste of fear on my tongue.
My throat tightens.My breaths turn shallow.A panic attack slams into me like a freight train — sudden, overwhelming, choking.My vision tunnels, the edges blurring.“No — no, not now.”
I force myself to inhale, counting like I’ve done a thousand times:
One.Two.Three.Four.
But the breaths won’t even out.My mind won’t slow.The terror is too sharp, too immediate, too real.
Then the truck pulls into the other lane beside me.It coasts there, matching my speed.I turn my head for a split second.
Dark truck.Dark tint.Shadow behind the glass.
My heart stops.
A hand reaches out the open driver’s window — gloved — gripping the door frame like he’s positioning himself.
“What do you want?”I shout, though I know he can’t hear me.
Or maybe he can.Maybe the fear is the point.
He swerves toward me.
I scream and yank the wheel right.My car jerks violently, tires spitting gravel as I fight to keep it on the road.
Then—The world erupts.
