071/365 10/31/2025

The wife turns to you, her eyes wide, one hand braced on the dash, the other clutching your forearm. “I think that was a body.” 

The two of you race across the desert hills: scrub brush you have no idea the name. Tan sand and top 40 from the car stereo. “No way,” you say. You check the rearview and can’t see anything. Nothing in the road. “There’s nothing in the road. Maybe it was a mirage.” 

“No,” she says. “In the ditch. There was a body. We have to turn around.” 

A fear grips your throat. Makes your windpipe small.