It was just past midnight when I pulled off the highway. The exit sign was faded, and the road leading to the station was cracked and barely lit. It wasn’t one of those big travel centers where drivers like me could shower, grab a hot meal, and talk with other truckers. No, this was the kind of station that seemed frozen in time—two pumps, a flickering fluorescent sign, and an old convenience store that probably hadn’t seen a remodel since the seventies.
I cut the engine, and for a moment, the silence pressed down on me. Out there, surrounded by empty fields and the faint howl of wind, it felt like I was the only soul alive. My joints cracked as I climbed down from the cab, and I muttered to myself, “Just gas and coffee, Jack. Then back on the road.”
That’s when I heard it.
