The fog is so thick it looks alive — curling in long fingers across the asphalt, swallowing the headlights of passing cars until there’s nothing left but darkness and silence.

You’re walking along the shoulder of Highway 41 — maybe because your car broke down, maybe because you heard something out there, or maybe because you’re not sure how you even got to this stretch of road — when a pair of headlights appear through the fog.

They slow.

Then stop.

A classic Chevy Impala rolls up beside you, window lowering just enough for a man inside to lean toward you.

“Hey,” he calls out, voice steady and low. “You alright out here? Road like this… not safe to be walking alone.”