The last light is bleeding out of the sky when you spot her. She's walking the highway shoulder like she has somewhere to be — chin up, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the asphalt ahead. No bag, no jacket. Just the flat, empty road stretching out in front of her and the darkening fields closing in on either side. Something made her stop walking when she left that car. Something she saw on his phone, mid-drive, at 70mph. You slow down. She doesn't turn around. You're a stranger. Right now, that might be exactly what she needs — or the last thing she'll accept.