By my third cup of coffee, I started wondering if a car would even stop here tonight. By the fourth, I was genuinely worried. I was sitting at the counter in a truck stop, a mile or so from the interchange. I needed to head south, but most folks were going east. The truck stop itself was a no-name place. A little run-down, but they served soup, and the coffee was hot.

The problem was the snowstorm. An icy north wind swept straight across Lake Michigan, bringing snow, freezing rain, and temperatures in the low teens. The weather channel on one of the screens above the counter said it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

The owner stood behind the counter, killing time. Somewhere in the back, a woman was working—probably his wife. I was alone, like always. My one shot at a ride had just left. Some guy headed to Chicago. Wrong direction.

Then the door swung open. A woman stepped inside, followed by a blast of frigid air. I shivered. She wore gloves, a thick old parka, and lined pants fraying at the hems. A layer of snow dusted her shoulders. She looked worn out. I glanced outside, but in the dark, I couldn’t spot her car. She scanned the room briefly, then took a seat at a table by the window. Stupid move, I thought. Warmer to sit away from the glass.

The owner came over with the coffee pot, but she waved him off. She just sat there, staring at her gloves.

I slid off my stool and walked toward her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She didn’t look up. “My name’s Samantha. I’m trying to get south. Any chance you’re heading that way and could give me a ride?”

The woman stared at me, her expression blank. My hair was in a messy bun, my clothes didn’t smell exactly fresh, and my shoes were caked in mud.

“No,” she mumbled eventually, then looked away. “Sorry,” she added to her gloves. “I don’t live far from here. I’m heading back soon. I can’t help you.”

Shit, I thought. I wandered back to the counter. Time dragged on without much happening. I was done with the coffee.

I studied the woman. She just sat there. A small puddle of melted snow had formed under her chair. She muttered something to herself. Fighting with someone at home, I figured. Drove off into the night to let things cool down. Literally and figuratively.

I waited.

Ten minutes passed before the door opened again. This time, a big guy walked in. Big and heavy. Broad arms, massive torso, a scraggly beard. A Viking. Or maybe a grizzly bear. Behind him came a second guy, a shadow of the first. Small and wiry, with a nervous twitch in one eye. They both wore the same uniform: black pants, black turtlenecks, and black jackets. Winter gear, but not built for January in Illinois.

The men scanned the room. They ignored the owner and looked straight at me. The big guy nudged the smaller one and grinned. I’d seen that look before, but I didn’t have many options. Spending the night here wasn’t one of them.

“You headed south?” I asked from my stool. “I could use a ride.”

The big guy lumbered toward me. “We’re not going south, sweetheart,” he said, still grinning. “But I’d be happy to give you a ride.” He stopped close, his chest just a few inches from my face.

“I don’t know,” I answered, lacing my words with sarcasm. “If you’re not going down, you’re not worth my time.”

His grin dropped, replaced by a hard glare. He stepped even closer, but the little guy tugged his arm and pointed toward the woman at the table. Without another word, the big guy turned and stomped her way. The smaller one swatted my empty coffee cup off the counter like a bratty kid before following him.

They went to the woman’s table and sat down on either side of her. She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she looked relieved. I took another look at her shabby clothes and dark circles. Maybe there wasn’t a husband at home after all. Maybe she sold bootleg moonshine to jerks from the city to make ends meet.

They were talking about something, but I couldn’t hear what. It didn’t last long. A few minutes later, the three of them stood up and headed for the door. Whatever they were planning, it wasn’t meant for fluorescent lighting.

The big guy caught me staring, cupped a hand over his crotch, and made a jerking motion before disappearing into the night.

I stared at my reflection in the window. Not your problem, Samantha, I told myself. Stay put. Let it go. But the image of that woman stuck with me. Two guys like that… this wasn’t going to end well.

My fingers brushed the edge of my backpack. I’d regret it if I didn’t do something—I already knew that much.

I let out a long sigh, pulled my bushcraft knife from the side pocket, and slid it into my coat. A bad idea, but some things you just do.

The icy night air caught me off guard. I’d been sitting inside for hours. The wind bit through my jacket, making me shiver, and thick snowflakes clung to my hair almost instantly. I flipped up my collar and scanned the parking lot. Out past the reach of the halogen lights, two trucks were parked. An old, battered Chevy Silverado and a shiny, new Ford Raptor. They sat apart, with three figures standing in the no man’s land between them.

I crept closer. They were arguing. The Viking’s booming voice carried over the howling wind. The woman sounded frantic. Then the big guy stepped forward and slapped her across the face. Hard. She hit the ground with a thud. The smaller guy just stood there, grinning.

The woman scrambled to her feet, but the big guy kicked her in the backside, shouting something I couldn’t make out. She bolted toward her truck, sobbing.

“You okay?” I asked quietly. She flinched, startled—I’d blended into the dark. Her lip was split, blood smeared across her chin, and a bruise was already forming around her eye.

“You need to leave,” she hissed. “Don’t get involved. This is just how it works around here.”

Too late for that, I thought.

I said, “Let’s go back inside. Maybe they’ve got bandages or something.”

But she shook her head. “I need to get home.” She climbed into her truck, paused to look at me through the glass, then started the engine and drove off into the night.

A sensible girl would’ve gone back inside, ignored the situation, and waited for a ride out of here as soon as possible. Instead, I slipped into the treeline at the edge of the rest stop. The two men stood staring at the fading taillights of the woman’s car as it slid its way toward the interstate. Their breath puffed into visible clouds. The smaller guy was hopping in place to keep warm. Then, suddenly, he turned and started walking toward me.

He was going to take a piss. He walked into the woods, passing less than ten feet from me, without noticing I was there. I was invisible. I crept after him, silent as a shadow. The snow muffled everything. The man kept going deeper into the woods, maybe self-conscious about peeing in public. I glanced back. The rest stop had disappeared into the darkness.

The man staggered over the snow and hidden branches until he reached a tree. He unzipped his pants, and I heard the stream hit the ground. I needed answers, and fast. The plan was simple: hit him hard in the neck, right where head meets spine. It’s a good way to loosen someone up for a chat. Where I grew up, things didn’t always play by the rules.

I ghosted up behind him and launched an elbow at the base of his skull. But the guy must’ve had a sixth sense. He turned, mid-stream, and his jaw collided with my elbow halfway through his spin. I felt something crack, but my immediate concern was his piss splattering all over my pants and boots.

He cried out, clutching his face. His eyes watered from the pain, but he recognized me instantly.

“You!” he slurred, the rest of his words garbled by choking and groaning. He couldn’t talk anymore.

Shit.

“What’s going on here?” I barked. “What were you planning with that woman?”

The man wobbled, barely able to stay upright. He was in bad shape. His hand groped behind his back, and I thought he was looking for something to steady himself. But then he pulled out a revolver.

Shit, shit, shit!

Panicked, I clenched my fist and landed a cigarette punch right on his broken jaw. He went down, but not before the gun fired. The shot buried itself in the ground less than a foot from my boots, kicking up a spray of snow.

The man lay flat on his back, dazed and in agony. He was no good to me like this. I dropped onto his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Then I drove my knee into his throat, pressing down just enough to cut off his oxygen. I held it there until his eyes rolled back and he passed out.

That’s when I heard the Viking shout.

I guessed I had about two minutes before the big guy would come looking for his buddy. Quickly, I searched the man’s pockets. I found a phone, a wallet, and a set of car keys. The phone was locked with a passcode. Inside the wallet were a hundred dollars, which I slipped into my pocket, and the man’s driver’s license. It was registered in St. Louis, Missouri. The car keys had a Ford logo, which I pocketed as well. Then I crawled away.

The big man’s shouts sounded closer now, but I couldn’t see him. It was pitch-black. I crouched behind some underbrush and clenched my jaw tightly shut. I didn’t want him to hear my teeth chattering. I was freezing. I gripped my knife. Taking the giant down with just a couple of hits was out of the question.

The man’s heavy footsteps crunched closer in the snow. I only saw him when he planted his boots in the snow right in front of my face. I held my breath. He didn’t see me. He muttered a curse under his breath. His beard was dusted with snow. He stumbled. I noticed now that his ankle was hurting. Maybe he’d tripped and injured himself. He rubbed his arms in a feeble attempt to stay warm and clumsily made his way through the snow. He looked uneasy. Unfamiliar terrain, the cold. That’s when I realized: the man was scared. He’d lost his buddy, and without him, he wasn’t getting out of here. Especially not with his car keys buried deep in my pocket.

I watched him go. He was heading in the wrong direction. At this rate, he’d miss his friend by ten yards and eventually end up in Indiana. I let him go.

The darkness in the dense woods was disorienting. The wind and snow had erased my footprints. I was glad I could rely on my wilderness experience and wondered how the big guy would fare. Eventually, I found my way back to the parking lot. It was still deserted. The Ford Raptor sat alone in the shadow, covered by a thick layer of snow.

Curious, I peered through the window. There was something on the passenger seat. I opened the door with the keys from the guy with the broken jaw. On the seat lay a stack of bills. Recently withdrawn. At least five hundred dollars. On the ground was a paper bag. Its contents surprised me. There were injection pens inside. Insulin, I deduced from the label. Straight from the hospital in Saint-Louis.

I thought of the old clothes and the old junker the woman had been driving, and then looked at the brand-new Ford Raptor and the insulin pens. The story started to make sense. I had been completely wrong at first. “I have to go home,” the woman had said. No doubt to a man or child who would have to survive the next month without their medicine. Suddenly, I regretted not stringing those two idiots up on my knife. I grabbed my knife and slashed all the Ford’s tires. I shoved my hand in my sleeve and smashed the windows with the butt of the knife. I didn’t know if the big guy would come back, but I didn’t want him to have a shelter. I tossed the keys into the woods. I left the money; I didn’t want it.

I walked back to the truck stop. The owner was behind the counter again, nodding at me. I nodded back and took my place again. He placed a cup of coffee in front of me. Ten minutes later, the bar’s windows lit up as an 18-wheeler hissed and rumbled to a stop. A minute later, a cheerful trucker with a big beer belly walked in. He was heading to Nashville and offered me a ride if I wanted to go. Another ten minutes later, I was sitting comfortably in the warm cab of the truck, and we approached the interchange. We merged, took the exit, and headed south.