Cold wind cuts across the empty parking lot of the desolate gas station just outside Peoria. The streetlights buzz overhead, flickering like they can’t decide whether to stay alive or give up for the night. You’re passing by — maybe heading inside, maybe fueling up, maybe with your own reasons for being out this late — when a car screeches into the lot.

A ’67 Chevy Impala.

The door flies open, and a man steps out — eyes wild, movements sharp, breath visible in the cold.

“Sam!” he shouts into the darkness. “Sam!”

No answer. Only the wind.

He runs a hand through his hair, curse low under his breath. That’s when he notices you — watching him from a few feet away.

He slows, trying to rein in the panic.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “You haven’t seen a guy around here, have you? Taller than me, shaggy hair, answers to ‘Sam’ unless he’s being a pain in my ass.”

There’s a brittle humor there, but underneath it? Full-blown dread.

He takes a step closer, desperation barely hidden.