Some Quiet Place

handle to the driver’s door that I realize I don’t have the keys—they’re in my bag, which I stuck behind some bushes by the front doors of the school. I remember that I also might have a sweater in there. I can feel the man’s unfaltering eyes on me the entire time as I quickly jog to my bag, dig around in it for both my keys and the sweater—it turns out to be a windbreaker—zip it on, throw the bag over my shoulder, and run back to my truck.
    The man still doesn’t say a word. The absolute silence feels alien, and my fingers are still shaking as I grasp my keys and shove them into the door. The worn material of the seats rubs against my skin as I get in, but I scarcely notice. I’m concentrating on the steps, focusing only my hands.
    Close the door. Lock it. Put your bag in passenger seat. Put the key in the ignition. Turn it.
    Nothing. Silence.
    I turn the key. Again. And again. No, no, no, no …
    After a few more turns, I stop. It’s futile.
    The man has been waiting patiently. When he sees that I’m done, he lopes around to my window, tapping on it with the back of his knuckle, a delicate movement. My heart is pounding and my hands are sweating. There is something very, very wrong here. I roll the window down just a crack, choosing to stare at his perfectly white teeth rather than his cold eyes.
    “Mind if I take a look?” the man asks. I shake my head.
    He leaves my side and lifts the truck’s hood. Moments later he calls to me, “It appears those children took out your battery.” He shuts the hood. Slam .
    I just sit there. My mind whizzes through all the possibilities. The school is locked, so I can’t reach a phone. I could walk … no, not without pants. Too many questions, and someone would see and probably get back to Tim. But getting home is probably more important than anything Tim will do to me … maybe I should stay … but when morning comes my classmates will see me, and rumors will spread like a wildfire.
    I’m at a complete loss as to what to do. Seems to be happening to me often lately. Too often.
    “You know, I could give you a lift home,” the man says, his voice suddenly gentle. He knows I have no other options. No phone, no truck, no clothes. Fear hasn’t appeared yet, which is odd in itself. I could wait a little longer—
    Thunder rumbles the ground.
    I start, glancing at the horizon. When did it turn gray? This strange fear flowing through my veins clouds my logic. It’s nearing sunset already—how did that happen? Staying definitely wouldn’t be safe … would it? Not with something out there that sent even immortal beings running for the hills. No, not safe. Especially not for a half-naked girl in a rusty truck, no matter what abilities she may have.
    Clutching the steering wheel, as if the truck will spontaneously start and solve all my problems, I swallow. “You’ll take me right home?”
    If possible, the man’s smile grows until it seems like it’ll stretch right out of the confines of his face. Of course everything inside of me is shrieking, Danger, stupid, stay where you are . But I just need to get home. If he tries anything, I’ll probably be able to overpower him.
    “ … straight home,” the man at my window is promising. The thin piece of glass protecting me fogs with my breath, and I touch it with my finger, steeling myself.
    The man has turned away. He’s walking across the parking lot. When I remain in the cab of my truck, he glances back, lifting a brow. “Coming?” It sounds like a challenge.
    Don’t go! my instincts advise one last time. Fear will come. But I don’t feel him anywhere near. I can’t stay here. When once again I put the warning aside, the voice curls away like withering vines. Defeated.
    Every sound is an explosion in my head. The lock clicking, the door opening, my feet slapping the pavement. I take my bag with me and drop my keys in the side pocket. Following this man is like letting a shadow lead me through the dark. No relevancy or light to guide me.
    Since there isn’t a single car in the lot now, I assume his vehicle is along the road behind the school, where the teachers park. We’re both quiet.
    Then he turns, walking backwards. This is strangely disconcerting, like an owl turning its head all the way around. “So, Elizabeth,” he says in that violin voice, “how long have you lived in Edson?”
    Around the side of the school we go, to the back as I’d suspected. There’s one car and one truck along