Page 59 of I’m The Worst

The next day on the road isn’t much better. The farther we go, the more I’m convinced this country is nothing but snow and trees.

I barely slept last night.

And Wolff didn’t sleep at all.

I don’t think I’ve seen him sleep once since we started traveling together. It’s starting to show—circles carved deep under his eyes, the lines around his mouth harsher. His dark brown hair and beard have grown out, rough and uneven.

The air in the truck is drawn tight. Even the others are quieter than usual, only speaking when they have to. Snow starts falling again, slow at first, then thicker the farther we drive.

Miles drag by. The mountains rise in the distance, the trees growing denser, closing in

I don’t realize I’ve drifted off until my head hits the glass.

I jerk awake. “Shit.”

The truck swerves, the back tires slipping on ice. I blink, trying to focus. It must’ve been a while—everything outside is pitch black now, snow coming down so hard it’s almost solid, visibility gone.

Savva mutters something in Russian.

We hit another patch of ice. The truck fishtails, tires losing traction before catching again on the shoulder. As Savva fights the wheel, the engine snarls.

“We’re not making it any farther in this fucking storm,” he snaps.

“No,” Wolff grinds out from the passenger seat. “We’re too close.”

Savva fires something back in Russian, and the tension in the cab spikes instantly.

“What’s he saying?” I whisper, leaning toward Viktor.

Viktor keeps his voice low. “The volk wants to push to the safehouse. Savva says we stop here.”

“Here?” I glance out the window. There’s nothing. No lights. No buildings. Not even a clear break in the trees. Just snow and darkness swallowing everything. “Where? We sleep in the truck?”

Victor nods.

Wolff’s voice cuts through the space. He’s mad, practically shouting as he unfolds a map across the dashboard.

But not a normal one. Nothing with words or names I recognize.

It’s worn and creased so many times it barely unfolds flat. Covered in markings—lines, circles, slashes—different colors layered over each other like it’s been rewritten a hundred times. Some spots are scratched out completely, while others are circled with such a heavy hand that the paper’s nearly torn through.

“What kind of map is that?”

Viktor glances at it, then back at me. “Not a map you buy in a store.”

I look at him, head tilting.

He jerks his chin toward Wolff. “Men like him don’t use GPS. Too easy to track.” His voice drops lower. “That map…is his.”

“His?”

Viktor nods. “Safehouses. Old routes. Dead zones. Places that don’t officially exist. Some of those marks could be years old. Some…from last week.”

My eyes drift back to it. Wolff’s hand moves across the page, dragging a finger down one of the marked paths.

“How does he remember all that?” I whisper.

“The volk doesn’t forget.”