Matt

The GPS became less and less useful, its map loading blank tiles here and there, the route line glitching.

The compass on the dashboard spun lazily for a second at one point, and then settled back in the same direction we'd been heading.

We passed landmarks that made no sense.

An outcrop shaped like a sleeping dog.

A lone dead tree with twisted branches.

A cluster of rocks that looked like someone had stacked them on purpose.

Then, an hour later, we'd passed something that looked like the exact same outcrop.

Tree.

Rocks.

The rusted sedan appeared twice more.

Each time, the symbol on its hood seemed darker.

The second time, there was a Polaroid tucked under a shard of broken windshield wiper, fluttering in the hot breeze.

Nobody wanted to get it.

We sat in the truck, staring at it like it was a snake.

Finally, Miguel swore, grabbed a bandana from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand like an oven mitt, and snatched the photo without letting his skin touch it.

He climbed back into the truck, unwrapped it, and held it up.

It was another campfire shot, not ours this time.

Different chairs, different truck, different people, three of them again, though the faces were blurred with movement.

Standing just behind one of the chairs, its hand resting on the back like it belonged there, was the tall, thin figure.

The eyes were the worst part.