The Passenger

I didn’t call in sick.

I should have.

Instead, I convinced myself the crash had been a nightmare.

That explanation lasted exactly twelve minutes.

Because my truck was parked in the driveway.

The windshield was cracked.

Mud covered the passenger side.

And the driver’s airbag hung limp over the steering wheel.

I never remembered driving home.

I never remembered climbing into bed.

Yet somehow…

Here I was.

I stood frozen in the driveway, staring at the damage.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

Then slow breathing.

Not static.

Not interference.

Someone breathing.

“I know you’re there.”

Another long pause.

Finally…

“You made it farther this time.”

Every muscle in my body locked.

“What?”

“You almost left.”

The voice sounded familiar.

Not because I recognized the person…

Because I recognized the way they spoke.

Like someone who already knew what I was going to say.

“Who is this?”

“You won’t remember me.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“I know.”

The line went quiet.

Then…

“Check your odometer.”

The call disconnected.

I stood there for several seconds before climbing into the truck.

The keys were still in the ignition.

The dashboard flickered to life.

117,117 miles.

I stared.

That wasn’t possible.

Yesterday…

No.

Before the crash…

The truck had barely crossed one hundred sixteen thousand.

I knew that.

Didn’t I?

My hands were shaking now.

I opened the glove compartment looking for the registration.

Instead…

I found a folded highway map.

Old.

Yellowed.

The kind nobody uses anymore.

Across the center, someone had written in thick black marker:

DON’T STOP AGAIN.

Underneath…

Someone had circled Mile Marker 117.

Over and over.

The paper was worn through from the pen pressing into it.

On the back was a list.

Just dates.

Dozens of them.

Every Monday.

Every one ending exactly the same.

Didn’t make it past 117.

The final entry was different.

Today’s date.

Only three words.

Passenger survived.

My stomach dropped.

Passenger?

I was alone.

Wasn’t I?

A soft click echoed behind me.

Not outside.

Inside the truck.

From the back seat.

I slowly looked into the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Just darkness.

Then…

A seatbelt tightened by itself.

Click.

As though someone had just buckled in.

The radio crackled.

A woman’s voice whispered so softly I almost missed it.

“Don’t look back.”

I looked anyway.

The back seat was empty.

But the passenger-side window…

Someone had written four words in the fog gathering on the glass.

You’re driving me home.