The back of Don’s semi must have been millimeters from the front of our car. What was now revealed to be another semi was behind us, but it was now twisted a bit to the left of us, in the other lane of the road. The second semi’s positions essentially blocked our car from moving anywhere else on the road. The only direction out was towards the endless black that was to my right. I checked to see that my door was locked before turning to my left and screaming.

Kyle was looking over at me, his face obscured behind a sheet of hot red blood that coated his face and spurted out from a fresh wound that gaped upon his forehead.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Kyle.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I just hit my head on the steering wheel”

My gaze moved from Kyle to the outside world for a moment when a bright figure entered my vision outside of the driver’s side window.

The figure was an old woman, one that could have been anyone’s grandma packaged in white shorts, a green blouse and a white visor, looking like she belonged on a golf course in Scottsdale as opposed to a desolate desert road somewhere in Nevada.

She walked up to the window and knocked upon the thick glass.

“You must be Kyle and Melissa,” the grandma said with kind eyes behind glasses, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Kyle looked like Carrie after they dumped the blood on her at prom.

“How do you know our names?” I shot back and her face scrunched up.

“Oh, Don told me,” the grandma said then cringed at Kyle. “Ew, that looks bad. We are gonna have to take you to the emergency room.”

“Why did he stop so suddenly?” I pleaded at the grandma. “Where are you leading us?”

The grandma ignored me and kept looking Kyle up and down.

“Son, we’re gonna have to get you to the hospital, or you could be in some serious trouble. I’ll radio Don and he will lead the way. Come on now,” the grandma said and walked back over to the long hauler that I couldn’t believe she commanded.

Fighting off my simmering rage, I grabbed one of the numerous dirty shirts that were strewn about the back seat, and wrapped it around Kyle’s head, right over the gash that was still milking out hot blood.

“I don’t think we should follow them. We should just find the hospital ourselves, call 411 or something on your phone,” I said.

I didn’t notice that Kyle was already looking at his phone.

“No service.”

“Fuck, call 911.”