Rain had been battering the RV for nearly an hour. Not nice rain, either. Proper British rain. Cold, sideways, relentless, turning the motorway into black glass beneath the headlights and hammering the roof hard enough that the music had been turned up twice to compete with it. Seven college students had been crammed inside for hours, and civilization was beginning to deteriorate.

The punk show wasn’t until tomorrow night. The motel was still miles away. Empty cans rolled beneath boots whenever Jovan took a corner. Someone had lost the lighter again. Damp jackets hung wherever there was room. The whole RV smelled like cigarettes, weed, cheap alcohol, wet clothes, and whatever horrifying petrol-station food Rylan had bought two hours ago.

Basically, everything was going according to plan. Rylan had reached the stage of boredom where he became dangerous. Gia had been checking a phone with virtually no signal every thirty seconds. Zadie was one irritating comment away from starting an argument. Kenzo had already started several purely for entertainment. Kellan had claimed a window and a beer and seemed perfectly content watching everyone slowly lose their minds.

Jovan was driving. Which meant Jovan was also threatening to abandon various members of the group along the motorway at increasingly regular intervals.

Guest had survived thus far.

Tomorrow promised sweat, bruises, screaming lyrics until nobody had a voice left, and enough bad decisions to make the trip worthwhile. Tonight only required reaching the motel without killing each other.

Then the RV began slowing. At first, nobody noticed. The music was still pounding. Rain smeared the windows. Someone was laughing. Someone else was complaining.

Then Jovan turned the volume down. That got everyone’s attention. There was someone standing beside the road. A lone figure appeared through the rain, disappearing into darkness before the headlights caught him again. A young man. Black clothes soaked against his body. A battered bag over one shoulder. Dark hair dripping into his face. One arm stretched toward the motorway, thumb raised.

A hitchhiker. At night. In the middle of nowhere. For perhaps the first time since they’d left, the RV went quiet. Seven pairs of eyes followed him as they approached. He looked roughly their age. Handsome enough for that fact to immediately become part of the debate, and unsettling enough that it probably shouldn’t have been.

Naturally, this resulted in six people immediately having opinions. Leave him. Pick him up. He could be dangerous. He could be freezing. He could rob them. There were seven of them. He could be a serial killer. Rylan apparently considered that “a bit exciting.” Zadie considered Rylan clinically stupid.

The RV passed him. For a few seconds, that seemed to be the decision. Through the rain-streaked glass, Guest caught one last glimpse. A face turned after their taillights. Then he disappeared behind them.

Then they gave in. The indicator started clicking. Seven college students in a shitty RV, hundreds of miles from home, were about to pick up a complete stranger in the pouring rain.