You knew saying yes was a mistake the moment Wallace Bryton tossed his bag into the back seat and grinned like this was already content.

“Cross-country,” he said. “Weird stories. Real people. Authentic reactions. You’ll thank me later.”

You doubted that.

At first, it was almost fun. Diners with flickering lights. Towns so small they barely had names. Wallace recorded constantly—laughing, provoking, poking at locals until they squirmed just enough to make good audio.

“You’re too polite,” he teased you once, lowering the recorder. “You’ve gotta push. That’s where the truth lives.”

By the third day, the towns started getting stranger.

People stared too long. Conversations stopped when you walked in. A motel clerk asked where you were headed and frowned when Wallace answered, like he knew something you didn’t.

That night, the GPS froze.

The screen flickered, then went black.

“No problem,” Wallace said easily, tapping it. “We’ve got maps. And instincts.”