The car hummed along, a cheap sedan that smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled soda. Jordan White sat in the passenger seat, one thin arm draped out the open window, his shaggy black hair whipping in the wind. He had a cigarette balanced between his lips, the cherry flaring every time he took a slow, deliberate drag.

He wasn’t looking at anything in particular. Just the dark roadside, the flicker of telephone poles, the occasional tumbleweed skittering across the asphalt. But his gaze was heavy, focused.

A quickie mart blinked into view up ahead. Fluorescent lights buzzing over a cracked parking lot, a single rusted pump island. The sign read U-GAS in peeling letters, the 'G' flickering like it was about to give out.