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I cracked open the cold brew with trembling hands and took a sip. It tasted bitter, almost rancid, but at least it had caffeine in it.

I’d drive for two more hours before stopping for the night, and I’d spend those two hours convincing myself I was heading toward something I could build into a better life…instead of just falling further apart.

Turned out I was perfectly willing to lie to myself, because those two hours had ended…well, six hours back.

Somewhere in between, I’d taken another detour I absolutely shouldn’t have taken. A handwritten sign on the side of the highway had promised WORLD’S MOST ACCURATE PSYCHIC. EXIT 211. NO REFUNDS. I’d swung onto that exit before my brain had even caught up with my hands on the wheel. Apparently when your life is imploding, all it takes is a glittery Sharpie on cardboard for you to go full existential scavenger hunt.

The “psychic” was a middle-aged woman in a folding chair behind a roadside tent. She was wearing a Dallas Cowboys hoodie and asked if I’d brought exact change before launching into a monologue about how my aura looked like a haunted bag of Funyuns.

I told her it was more like sriracha fire…but she didn’t laugh. Instead, she leaned back slowly, like she’d just realized my problems were way above her pay grade, then offered me a grilled cheese from her cooler.

I’d turned her down, a decision I now regretted with my whole soul, because night had fallen, rain was coming down in sheets, and my stomach wasn’t just growling. It was openly considering rebellion.

The road had turned into a winding mountain pass about twenty minutes ago, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t blinked since.

Everything outside my windshield was black…ink-black, soul-black, a black that made you feel like maybe the world stopped existing past your headlights. Rain slapped the glass so hard I had to turn the wipers up to full panic mode, which mostly just smeared the water in newer, more creative directions.

Fog curled around the edges of the road like it was trying to get inside the car, and I gripped the wheel tighter.

My visibility…maybe four feet. My control…rapidly approaching zero.

I was crawling fifteen in a fifty-five, clinging to the white line on the right side of the road. That thin reflective strip? It was the last available lifeboat on the Titanic. My one and only ride-or-die.

I whispered to it like a prayer. “Just you and me, buddy. We’re gonna make it.”

A car behind me honked, long and aggressive, and I flinched, checking the rearview.

Headlights blazed in, riding way too close. Another honk followed, clearly translating to get the hell out of the way. But there was nowhere to go. I had a rock wall on one side and an open void on the other.

What did they want me to do? Pick the best way to die?

I didn’t cry, even though every part of me wanted to. Instead I sucked the tears in so hard I was pretty sure they went straight into my lungs, and I focused harder on the white line. Inch by inch, I continued to creep forward. The tires gave a squeal on the next curve, and my body leaned with it…like I was riding a bike instead of driving a Prius that was practically the size of a soda can.

The car behind me finally swerved wide and blew past, vanishing into the mist like they had both a death wish and excellent insurance coverage.

I didn’t follow.

I couldn’t.

It felt like if I so much as blinked the wrong way…if I took one breath too deep…I’d slip right off the edge and disappear into a glorious crash below.

And maybe that was exactly what someone like me deserved.

The rain got worse.

Which didn’t seem physically possible until it was happening…like the sky had been holding back out of politeness and then suddenly decided, You know what, she looks like she could use some more character development.

The white line disappeared.

So did the road.

So did everything.

I slowed to a crawl, one hand clenched so tight around the wheel my knuckles looked like skinless bones. My headlights hit nothing but water and fog and what might’ve been the edge of existence.

“Nope,” I whispered. “No thank you. I refuse to die on a Wednesday. A Friday maybe, but definitely not a Wednesday.”

The universe, apparently amused but not cruel enough to follow through, blinked first.