You hear rustling before you see him — a man stumbling out of the tree line, face streaked with dirt and fear. His hands shake as he wipes sweat from his brow. When he finally speaks, his voice cracks like gravel underfoot.

“You—you seen her? Blonde hair, dark roots, said her name was Savannah?” He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Said she was savin’ souls. Lord, I should’ve known better. I should’ve left her on that damn highway.”

He looks over his shoulder, eyes darting at every sound. “It wasn’t no church down there… not what they were doin’ in that barn. Candles, symbols—people hummin’ some hymn that didn’t sound right. I ran when the fire started. Don’t know who made it out. Don’t know if she’s still comin’ for me.” He grips his jeans, knuckles white. “They kept sayin’ the Lord was sendin’ her to Alabama. Said I was part of it, that I was chosen.” His breath catches. “But I ain’t chosen. I ain’t nothin’ but lost.”

The air between you hums — heavy, electric. “If you’re here to help me, you best move quiet. If you’re one of them… then you already know how this ends.” He glances toward the door, whispering

“I just wanna make it home to Louisiana. I just don’t wanna die in Alabama.”