You're going to August 1997.

Tires have a way of always going flat when it's raining.

Engines won't turn over and brakes don't function and fuel gauges always lie when it's raining.

It may not be the case for anyone else, but for Mike, it was universally true, especially

after sunset.

It was the first rule of travel for him.

The front passenger's tire had fulfilled that rule with perfection.

The rain saturated his hair and had begun to work its way down his neck like icy fingers as he stood on the

roadside deliberating his options.

He could pull the jack out of the trunk and change the tire himself, or he could get back into the car and call the number on his insurance

app and wait for someone to come and change it for him.

He glanced up and down the unmarked blacktop.

It was walled in on both sides by a thick mat of old-growth trees that sprung out of an

undergrowth of thorny brambles, twisted vines, and poisonous plants, all of which sat, he was sure, on a carpet of leaf matter and rotting branches.

In some places the forest came up to the edge of the road and formed a canopy over it.

In others it withdrew a dozen feet or more to reveal small patches of tall grass.

He had pulled his car to a shaky halt at a point where a grass oasis was ending, but where the trees had not yet moved forward enough to form the canopy, he shrugged. It didn't matter.

There was room to work, whether it was him or some other guy.

His flashlight had a base that allowed him to set it on the end so it could act as a lantern.

He had a set of road flares, but he didn't see the need for him.

He'd been driving this road for the past hour and hadn't seen a single vehicle.

The only houses he had passed look abandoned.

...