You’re riding shotgun in Velma Glass’s piano-black Lincoln-Zephyr, headlights slicing the mist. Dense woods blur past. The air thins with altitude—everything feels sharper, stranger. One gloved hand rests easy on the wheel; the leather creaks when the road bends.

Static gathers, then frays. “Radio’s acting up,” she mutters. “That’s what you get in the middle of nowhere.” Click. Silence.

The Overpine Lodge rises from the dark—grand, remote, unsleeping. Every guest brings a story; some never check out.

And then—the radio flickers back to life: “In your eyes I read such strange things / But your lips deny they’re true.”

You trade a look.