MILA'S HANDS gripped the steering wheel, white at the knuckles. She only wanted to get through Ohio tonight. She wasn't asking for much. Just Ohio. She just wanted to cross the Indiana border before passing out from exhaustion. She needed to put as much distance between herself and New York as she could.

At the rate she'd been driving at first, she'd thought she could do it, no biggie. It was just a ten hour drive. She'd be there by one a.m. if she didn't make any stops.

And then she hit rush-hour traffic.

Even in the thriving, bustling metropolis of Jonestown, Pennsylvania—population: less than 2,000, what the fuck, is that even a city?—traffic at just after five was stand-still.

Mila blew air out of her nose and pap-pap-papped on her horn.

... Jonestown ...

... Jonestown ...

... Jonestown ...

A snow-covered land. It was just a little coating of snow this far south, like powdered sugar on top of a lemon bar. The kind of snow that instantly turned to a gray slush on the highway. Hilly, but Mila wouldn't go as far as to say it was mountainous. Their punk-rock radio station was elusive amid the slew of Christian pop stations, but it was there, and Mila had it blasting. Jonestown... was dark, night draping over the town like a heavy blanket. The sun had set half-an-hour ago. Mila was groggy and tired and just wanted to get off the road.

... Jonestown ...

... a massacre, Guyana, a cult, cyanide, revolutionary suicide, a mass suicide, a murder-suicide, no, a massacre, a massacre, a massacre, nearly a thousand dead, and the tapes, the tapes, the tapes, Mila had heard the tapes, had heard the children screaming, had heard the eerie silence afterwards, the stillness that was so much more unsettling because you knew what had happened to those children ...

This was not that Jonestown. But Jim Jones' voice still echoed in Mila's head from the tapes. Nothing he had said, but the way his voice sounded. The grating way it washed over her skin. Knowing she was listening to a man capable of such horrific acts. Knowing he was actively carrying them out. Knowing the children had died. Knowing...

Her car shot forward. Her head snapped back.

Her foot was still on the brake.

She'd been rear-ended. Of all places: Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Jonestown, baby.

Mila's body burned with annoyance. Instinctively, her middle finger shot into the air. She turned her head over her shoulder.

The woman behind her—hair swinging in a high ponytail, white, middle-aged, plump—gaped at Mila, her eyebrows furrowed. She motioned to the side of the road, signaling for Mila to pull over. The woman pulled over, killed the engine, and got out, wringing her hands together.

Shit... If Mila pretended she wasn't there, maybe she'd go away. Mila looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice her. Obviously, this brilliant idea didn't work. The woman knocked on Mila's passenger-side window. She couldn't pretend not to notice her now. She cranked the window down.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked. "Can you step out with me? We need to decide if we're going to report this or not."

Mila had to think fast. Pretend not to understand her.

"What?" Mila asked in Spanish, cocking her head and batting her lashes. She tried to look adorable and innocent and confused and, above all else, harmless. "I don't speak English." Never mind that the directions on her GPS were clearly in English. Mila hoped the woman couldn't read.

The woman blinked at her. Looked like she understood her a little. Like she was searching the depths of her memories for the poor Spanish she'd learned in high school. Like Mila's lie could fall apart so, so quickly, if the woman could just remember those to be verbs. She opened and closed her mouth like she had something she wanted to say, like it was on the tip of her tongue...

The traffic was starting to move. And Mila was only a couple feet from the exit ramp. If she could move just a teeny bit forward, she could speed away from this woman and this situation, to the safety of whatever lay for her in a highway exit in Jonestown, Pennsylvania.

"Sorry, gotta go, I'm late for pilates!" Mila chirped, rolling up her window.

The woman stared at her. But Mila was in a car and she wasn't and traffic was finally moving, thank Christ. Mila flicked her blinker on and crept toward the exit ramp. Tick-tick-tick, beneath the steady drum (and electric guitar and screamy vocals) of the radio station. The woman power-walked to keep up with her, but didn't knock on her window again.

Mila waited for an opportunity. When given one, she quickly swerved into the right lane. She flicked her blinker on again. Tick-tick-tick. A couple feet later and the exit ramp was just before her. With a frantic jerk of the steering wheel, she turned onto it.

She was home free.

She slammed on the gas and shot forward.

Screw the lady who had hit her.

She could rot in Hell.

***

MILA PULLED INTO a Wendy's parking lot and held her head in her hands. Her bangs tickled her fingertips—she'd never felt less (or more) like herself. Would it always be like this? Would she always live in fear?

She wanted so, so badly, to cry. Her chest was a raging river, overwhelming her with emotion. A sob rose in the back of her throat, but her eyes were dry and empty. No tears would fall.

She was alone and would be for the rest of her life. No one could help her. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not the police—though they never would have. She was all she had, and she would have to make do on her own.

Mila rubbed her hands over her face and lifted her head up, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. Dark circles rimmed her eyelids. All she wanted to do was find a hotel on this highway exit in BFE Pennsylvania, check in, climb into her pajamas, and curl up in bed. She was already so sick of driving. How did people do this all the time?

But she couldn't. She had to get through Ohio tonight. Had to put as much distance between herself and New York as she could. She hadn't even gotten to Ohio yet. She took a deep breath and checked the GPS. Still over seven hours until she'd reach the Indiana border.

It would be after one by the time she got to Indiana. That was assuming there'd be no other missteps, no more traffic, that she wouldn't even stop for a bathroom break.

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She glanced at the clock. It was almost dinner time.

Mila put her car in reverse and pulled out of the parking spot, turning into the drive-through. She treated herself to a Four-For-Four. She needed to be smart about her money from here on out. She could eat the burger and fries now—a feast in their own right—and save the nuggets for the hotel later tonight. The drink she could sip on all the way to Indiana. If she ran out, she could always fill it up in a gas station water fountain or even their bathroom sink if she was desperate.

She knew sooner or later she'd be getting pretty desperate.

***

THE FOUR-FOR-FOUR DID NOT sit well in Mila's stomach. An hour down the road, and she was green and shaky. Motion sickness. Her mortal enemy. Her stomach liquified. With each bump, her insides splashed around inside her. Despite the light snowfall, she blasted the AC. Sweat glistened on her forehead, pasting her hair to the back of her neck. She dialed the radio down, trying to focus on her breathing and the road.

Deep breath...

Deep breath...

In-n-out...

Don't throw up...

Don't—

She heaved. Her hand cupped over her mouth. She had to move, now. She had to get out of this car or she was going to die. All she had to do was keep moving, keep moving, and she—she'd be fine. She heaved again. Her insides weren't only liquified. They were boiling.

She jerked the steering wheel to the side. The car that had been trailing behind her swerved, the driver laying on the horn. Mila yanked the gear shift into park, shoved open her door, and stumbled out onto the icy snowbank on the side of the highway. Ripping her scrunchie off from around her wrist, she pulled her hair back out of her face. And then she threw up.

I'll spare you the gory details. And trust me, it was gory. Mila blew chunks off the side of the highway in BFE Pennsylvania. She threw up not once, not twice, not three times, not four times, but five times! Five! Her vomit piles could form a boy band.

Her vision blurred. She could barely stand up. She leaned against her car for support, feeling the cool metal against her sweaty back. Why did her car have to be lime green? She tried in vain to tuck her bangs behind her ears. She already hated them. No matter what she did, they were always touching her skin.

Maybe she should shave her head.

She ran her fingers through her hair, imagining feeling nothing but rough stubble.

Ewewewewew. She ripped her hands away from her scalp and looked at them in horror. Vomit hands—

She gagged, sticking her tongue out. She needed to get to a gas station, stat, so she could wash her hands, brush her teeth, splash some water on her face. And get some ginger ale. Obviously, she needed ginger ale.

What she really wanted was a hot shower and cool sheets to slide into. But she still had too far to go from here. She was still too close to New York.

Where was she, anyways? She found comfort and terror in the fact that she had no clue. She didn't even know if she was still in Pennsylvania.

She climbed back into her car, her legs shaky beneath her. She looked at her current location on the GPS. Newville, Pennsylvania.

She was still in Pennsylvania? It'd been hours. Was Pennsylvania hell? Was she going to be stuck here for the rest of eternity? She couldn't think of a worse punishment.

She hadn't even been on the road for a full 24 hours and she'd already lost her grip on reality.