I've debated whether to write this down for almost two years now.

Part of me thought putting it into words would make it feel more real again,

and I've spent a lot of time trying to make it feel less real.

But I also think about how I almost didn't listen to my gut that night, and how differently

this story could have ended. So here it is. It was a Friday in late October, one of those

gray, heavy afternoons where the sky never quite decides what it wants to do. I was driving

from Raleigh down to Charlotte to see my college roommate, Priya. She'd just moved

into a new apartment near Noda and had been badgering me for weeks to come visit. The drive is

about two and a half hours on I-85, three if you hit traffic around Greensboro. I'd done it a dozen

times. I knew the exits by heart, the Biscuitville in Burlington, the sheets outside of Lexington,

the way the radio signal gets spotty somewhere between High Point and Salisbury. I left my apartment

around 6.15, later than I'd planned. The sun was already sinking below the tree line by the time

I merged onto 85 south, and by the time

I cleared Durham, it was fully dark.

I want to be precise about when I first noticed him, because I've replayed it so many

times.

It was around Exit 147, somewhere near the Burlington Mills Road interchange.

I was in the middle lane doing about 73, and there was a

white pickup truck, an older model, maybe late 90s Ford F-150, that had been sitting in my rearview

mirror for a while. That by itself means nothing. People drive on highways. White trucks are

basically the state bird of North Carolina.

What made me glance twice was that he was close, not tailgating exactly, but closer than

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