The line went dead with a sharp, static click that made my ears ring.

“Ethan, step on the gas,” I commanded.

He pressed the pedal down, and the engine roared in protest.

The tires hydroplaned slightly on the wet asphalt, sending a violent spray of muddy water against the guardrail.

We turned off the highway onto a narrow, winding road lined with towering, dark pine trees that blocked out what little light remained.

The rain beat against the windshield in heavy, deafening sheets that the wipers could barely clear.

The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a muddy gravel road that climbed higher into the foothills.

We pulled up to a small, dark A-frame cabin set back in a grove of dripping trees.

A single yellow light burned in the front window, casting a faint glow onto the wet porch.

I didn’t wait for Ethan to park.

I threw the passenger door open and ran into the freezing downpour.

My sneakers sank into the deep, cold mud of the driveway.

I ran up the wooden steps of the porch, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and pounded on the heavy pine door.