Officer Granger sat in his cruiser, drool slowly seeping from the corner of his mouth, his fingers loosely wrapped around the radar gun he held pointed at the empty Howler Road. He had volunteered for speed-trap duty, and Howler was his favorite spot; with only a few houses placed here and there along the tree-lined road, drivers were few and far between. While he daydreamed of his big "break" of bagging bank robbers and living in a world where the blue uniforms triumphed over all, he meandered through his daily grind, guilting the doughnut shops into tossing him a few free jelly-filled for putting his life on the line. A sleepy line.
The gun screamed. The beautiful faceless hawaiian woman leaning in towards him vanished into the darkness. He jerked up from his laid-back seat just in time to hear the sweeping of air and feel his cruiser rock on its suspension. Fumbling with the radar gun, he read the bright red numbers on it's back: 72mph. Jesus Christ is this a suicide? as he glanced at the 35mph sign just across the road from his hiding spot. But just as quickly that thought was replaced by the dollar signs ringing up next to the fines he'd write out. Reckless. Speeding. And according to the clock on the cruiser radio, anyone speeding like that at 2:32am likely wasn't sober. What a hero, Officer Granger, rescuing the secluded freaks of Howler Road from some drunk teen out on a joy ride. Or one of your own. Now that was a headline. Granger smirked as he turned the ignition, threw the car into drive and let his tires squeal out onto the pavement, flashers temporarily lighting the darkness.
Granger felt his stomach drop. As he pulled out onto the road, the darkness was all that greeted him. Nothing. No tail-lights, not brake lights, not a single headlight in sight. Did he pull into a driveway? Is he hiding in the woods? He let his cruiser coast as he maneuevered the swerves and hills of Howler that kept most inexperienced drivers at bay. The trees were thick on either side; there were no pull offs, not even a shoulder, for a car to manage an escape beyond pavement. Where the hell was it? He knew it was a car; it was an unmistakeable sound, the rushing wind of the speed, but he had never not seen one before. Shit. Maybe he was finally losing it. Maybe it had all been just a dream. But the radar gun, the scream, I saw those numbers... As he rounded another turn, his lights lit up something just ahead, on the right hand side in a ditch. Something black and metallic. As he got closer, his headlights finally found it, and his feet slammed on the brakes to come only inches from the rear end of a back Eclipse. No lights. Not even the faint glow of an overhead cabin light, or from a glovebox as the driver tried to sift, drunkenly probably, through their paperwork to find their license and registration. There was no movement. Just darkness (kills). Grangers hands were clammy as he probed his passenger side for his flashlight. Of course it was on the floor. Unbuckling himself, he strained his girth against the wheel to find the cool plastic right by the radar gun. He snapped back up, but the buttons of his shirt touched the dispatch radio toggle, and suddenly the silence was flooded with static, white noise, and attempted dispatch calls on the wrong frequency. He could feel the sweat sliding between his shoulders. I just hit it, it's nothing, this place is just weird, that's it, just another traffic stop. So why did this feel different? Why did it sound like he could hear something beneath the dispatch, below the white noise, something his ears picked up but his mind didn't translate? He threw his door open; it was time to end this.
"Officer."

"You think this is the right thing to do, Tom?" 
"Well, right now, it's the only thing to do."
Caleb found it difficult to drift to sleep as his parents tried to talk, albeit in hushed voices, in the front seat of their little van as their trek from the midwest was winding down. He had found it easy to doze the first two days; his parents hadn't talked much then, and the sun had warmed his face as he slept. Now he could hear their anxious chatter, and the sun had become unreliable; he found even with his eyes closed, his vision was plagued with sporadic bursts of black and red as the sun became dappled by the trees they drove past. Make up your damn mind. But it continued, and he even found the darkness lasting longer and longer the further they drove. Where did they say they were going? Massachusetts? Minnesota?
"Maryland will be fine, you'll see. Quaint, historic. Plenty to do. And plenty of people to blend in with."
"Or to get lost in."
Caleb opened his eyes. Maryland. How many miles was it, from where he had thought of as home? Three days it took them, but that was with the horses. His father would've been fine to drive straight through, he had boasted, but the horses would take longer, and there was no point in getting there days before them. His father's good friend, Mr. Geary, or Uncle Jim, had agreed to use his trailer to load and trek their four horses separately, but kept in contact the whole way. Caleb imagined what they must've thought, being loaded up in a box head to tail and trekked half across the country. Probably felt more than I do right now. He pulled himself into a sitting position, looking out the tinted windows and seeing all shades of green and brown of fresh earth and forest on either side of them. It was lush and full of life, but it felt small. The trees all leaned inwards, towards the road. Caleb wondered how many trees were dismantled after every thunderstorm that blew through. Guess we'll find out. 
"Oh sweetheart, you're awake! We're almost home!" His mother's eyes danced in the rearview mirror, but she didn't turn to look at him. She must see how that word still makes him cringe. Home. As if you could pick up and move anywhere in the world and just call it home and have it be true. No. Caleb had been forced from his home and it was his fault. This was not home. This was a waiting station.