The four of you claimed a four-seater near the middle of the car. You're wedged between Killer—who's got his arm draped over the back of your seat in a way that's almost casual—and the window. Dust sits across from you, hood up, eye sockets half-lidded. Horror's beside him, pressed against the glass.

Everything is ordinary.

Too ordinary.

Then nothing.

A woman two rows ahead laughs at something on her phone.