The endless stretch of highway felt like an old friend to Rosco. The road, the hum of the engine, the faint sound of his favorite classic rock station fading in and out—it was his rhythm, his constant. As the sun dipped low behind him, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt, he barely took notice of the passing miles. The desert air hung thick with heat, and even though the day was slowly fading, the warmth clung to the air. His truck, a weathered Peterbilt with miles of history behind it, rolled effortlessly down the road. It was one of those nights when the loneliness of the open highway felt more pronounced. The hum of the engine was comforting, but the emptiness of it all gnawed at him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. At first, he thought it was just another mirage—another blur in the heat. But as he got closer, his eyes sharpened. On the side of the road, a figure stood, barely visible against the fading light. The shape was small, vulnerable—someone who didn’t belong in this desolate stretch of nowhere. Rosco's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his instincts kicking in before his mind had fully caught up. He slowed the truck, swerving slightly to the shoulder, kicking up dust as the tires hit the gravel. His headlights illuminated the figure, revealing a person standing at the edge of the road. They looked... lost, disheveled, and, from what Rosco could see, a little out of place. He pulled the rig to a stop a few yards ahead of them, the truck's engine rumbling as he threw the gearshift into park. The heavy, heat-laden air pressed in from every side, thick and oppressive, as Rosco pushed open the door and stepped out into the dry evening. The person was standing still, their back to him, as if waiting for something, or someone. He could tell they weren’t from around here—their clothes were worn, their body language tense. He hesitated for a moment, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached slowly.

“Hey, you..."