Page 18 of Silent Shadows

“You sure this is right?” he asked for the fourth time as we bounced down a dirt road surrounded by bare desert and absolutely nothing else.

“No clue,” I admitted.

That did not help. Once my destination came into view, Mike asked if he could text me from his phone so we’d have each other’s numbers, practically begging me to check in to make sure I was alive.

Now his taillights disappear in the distance, abandoning me beside an abandoned, weathered gas station that looks like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s because the gas price is $1.20.

I stare at the empty road.

Then down at the text Maya sent me three hours ago.

Maya

Sorry, Daisy! Running behind! Wait by the gas station. Don’t wander!

Which feels like concerning advice to give a woman alone in the desert. Luckily, Marissa and I had had enough video calls and back-and-forth emails with Maya to know I could trust her. And luckily, Maya knows I don’t have the Daisy persona turned on all the time, so I’m hoping I can just be myself.

Wind sweeps across the open landscape, warm and dry against my skin. The sun hangs low enough to turn the distant cliffs molten orange, shadows stretching long across the dirt.

It’s beautiful.

In a vaguely apocalyptic way.

It’s not what I expected for a Bigfoot expedition. But then again, most of what I knew comes from what’s on Netflix. Not reality.

I adjust the strap of my bag and pull my phone back out, automatically opening my recording app.

Professional instinct.

“If my body is discovered out here,” I say into the mic, “I’d just like the record to show that I died for journalism. Which feels unfair considering most of my career has been spent asking celebrities if they text their exes.”

I stop recording.

Replay it.

Still funny.

Good. At least I’m functioning.

Headlights appear in the distance a few minutes later, kicking up dust as something large rounds the bend in the road.

Very large.

The vehicle I remember from the image Marissa showed me emerges, looking less like an RV and more like a conspiracy theory with tires. I’m struck by the sheer size of it.

Matte dark exterior. Reinforced roof racks. Satellite equipment is mounted on top beside what looks alarmingly like military-grade storage containers. The side reads STRANGE TERRAIN DIVISION in bold lettering that somehow manages to look both serious and deeply homemade. Behind it, a 4Runner’s being towed with a black and orange dirt bike strapped to the back of it.

I blink.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I whisper.

The beast rolls to a stop in front of me with a dramatic hiss of brakes.

Silence.

Then the driver’s-side door of the RV flies open, and a woman jumps out of the vehicle. I recognize her instantly. Instead of cowboy boots today, though, it’s Crocs with a pink cowboy hat.

She’s all sun-warmed skin and wild blonde waves, moving toward me with enough energy to power a small city. Her cropped shirt reads, “World’s Best Cat Mom” even though I’m nearly positive there’s no cat in that RV.