Page 72 of Dark Night of the Soul

Down the concrete steps from the second landing to the first, and then I realized broken glass littered the parking lot.

“Wait—” I started.

“I got this.”

She picked her way through all the broken glass like it was choreography she’d done a thousand times. Perfection. Unflinching.

I stared.

“You going to open the door or what?” Her hand was on the passenger side handle.

I clicked the lock on the remote. She was already in the seat by the time I got to the driver’s side.

I pulled out the burner phone and checked the GPS coordinates, then started the car and punched them into the onboard navigation. She kept her gaze on my hands, watching as I put it in reverse.

“Silas?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Her gaze shifted from me to the navigation screen, watching as the arrow pointed us toward the destination.

“We’re going north?”

“Yes.”

“What’s there?”

“No idea.”

“Hm. Fun,” she said. Then she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

As I pulled onto the road, I checked the mirrors, watching intently as we left the ramshackle suburban area behind and merged onto a highway heading north toward forested terrain. No one following us. Arrival time: two hours.

Wherever Silas was sending us, it was remote. Off the grid.

Silence settled between us. She stayed quiet. I listened to her regulated breathing. She wasn’t sleeping. She was controlling it.

Then she said, “I don’t want to be this person.”

I didn’t answer right away. What could I say that didn’t sound like a lie?

“I know,” I said.

I wanted to tell her she wasn’t that person. That she was still her. But that was false comfort neither of us needed or wanted right now. I didn’t know how to fix this. Neither did she. It was a minefield we’d have to navigate together.

I kept driving.

At some point, she dozed off.

About forty-five minutes from the destination, she snapped awake with a sharp intake of breath and pitched forward, head dropping to her knees.

I hit the brakes, started to slow, aiming for the shoulder.

“No,” she said, voice muffled. “Keep going.”

Then she reached for me, searching. I gave her my hand. Her fingers closed around my palm, nails biting into skin. She dragged in a deep breath, expelled it, then sat upright. Her face was drained of color.

“I’m sorry. I—”