THE GAS STATION looked like an incredibly classy establishment. Well, those are my words. Mila thought it was more "bougie." It looked like a firehouse with a brick exterior and bright red accents. Snowy black picnic tables and shut green umbrellas lined the outside. It looked like textbook gentrification, but the bright, warmly-lit interior only made the darkness of a Pennsylvania winter so much darker and less inviting. All Mila wanted to do was stop driving and stay awhile. Maybe that was the station's appeal...

    She parked her car out front and hopped out onto the asphalt. With no makeup on, her hair a rat's nest, and her body half-covered in puke, she felt horribly insecure as she walked inside, which was even fancier. It looked more like a college cafeteria or an upscale grocery store than a gas station, with posts where you could grab a steaming cup of joe or your road trip snacks. Mila pulled her hoodie up and kept her head low. Shoving her hands in her front pocket, she barreled toward the restroom.

It was empty, thank God. She set herself up at the sink farthest from the door. She scrubbed her hands and splashed cool water over her face, patting her skin dry with a rough brown paper towel. She stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't feel real; she didn't look like herself. She wasn't herself. She didn't even recognize her reflection anymore. Her skin looked like plastic, like the immovable skin of a corpse. Was any of this real?

She shook her head.

Unzipping her bag, she fumbled for her toothbrush and toothpaste. She squeezed a thin line of toothpaste out onto her toothbrush and ran it over her teeth, spitting it out in the sink. With clean hands, she ran her hands through her hair. In its current tangled, greasy state, nothing short of shampoo, conditioner, and boiling hot water would fix it. She groaned.

Mila felt a little better now. Her insides were still liquified, and she knew if she ate anything else or hit too many bumps or curves, she'd be chucking all over the side of the highway again. But she felt better.

She emptied out her Wendy's cup and filled it with sink water. It was free and couldn't be poisoned... right?

If it was, hopefully it wouldn't kill her, but she'd get sick enough to sue. She was willing to be poisoned for a couple extra bucks. Except... she couldn't get involved in any lawsuits. As far as anyone else knew, Mila Santos was dead. Murdered while going for a hike.

She slapped herself in the face. Stop it. Seriously, Mila. Stop.

She had to get out of this bathroom.

She pushed open the bathroom door. Wanting to hit the road ASAP, she wasted no time in tracking down the goods: a vomit-yellow and anesthetic-blue packet of motion sickness medicine. Her eyes widened as she read the price. Nine dollars and ninety nine cents? Who was she, Jeff Bezos? She looked around, making sure no one was watching. She stuck it in her front pocket. Then she headed toward the refrigerated section and grabbed a bottle of ginger ale. The bottle was cool and felt good between her sweaty palms as she waited in line for the register. She was willing to pay a dollar for some ginger ale, but ten dollars for twelve pills? That was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And Mila wasn't opposed to being on the wrong side of the law.

***

    SOMEWHERE, PENNSYLVANIA: Dark, snowy roads and a queasy stomach that never stopped turning and turning and boiling as Mila passed through Pennsylvania, a state which she had now decided—

MILA (VOICEOVER.)

I would gladly wipe off the map. We've been over this.

    Somewhere, West Virginia: A brief stint in the foothills of the Appalachians. The snow capped-mountains loomed out of the dark. Mila desperately wished she had her phone with her so she could play John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

MILA (V.O.)

Mothman, you here?

In reality, he was farther southwest, which Mila and I both knew. (Trust me, I knew.) Still, she kept her eyes peeled for the red-eyed, winged creature.

A quick stop to fill up the gas tank and use the restroom. Mila couldn't help herself. She casually approached the cashier.

MILA

So. Mothman, huh? Have you seen him? Or do you know of any sightings around here?

    The cashier just looked at her funny.

    Somewhere, Ohio: Mila crossed the Ohio River into—take a wild guess. A hundred bucks if you guessed Ohio, where the mountains immediately crashed back into the earth. A lot of farmland. Cornfields as far as the eye could see, which set Mila on edge.

MILA (V.O.)

That much corn is an abomination against the Lord.

    Speaking of which. A billboard reading "If You Die Tonight, Will You Go To Heaven Or Hell?"

    The Ohio/Indiana border: Finally, Mila crept across the border into Indiana, Ohio's duller cousin. She squealed to herself. Like, actually squealed over Indiana, she was that tired.

MILA (V.O.)

Where's the closest motel?

***

THIRTY-SEVEN DOLLARS. For an entire motel room. To herself. For an entire night. In New York, you could barely get a bagel for that kind of money. Of course the room sucked. Mila didn't care! It was thirty-seven dollars!

    She'd been driving all day. It was nearly three a.m. She'd puked all over the side of the road earlier, gotten in a car accident, nearly had a mental breakdown in a Wendy's parking lot, and faked her death, all in the span of twenty-four hours. The worst motel in the worst town in the worst state in the worst country couldn't sway her. And her motel in Richmond, Indiana, USA was nearly that.

    Plus, they had a free continental breakfast.

    She couldn't pass that up.

***

IN THE MORNING, Mila popped two motion sickness pills. She wasn't about to repeat last night's Puke Fest. She grabbed her bags and headed out, throwing them in the passenger seat of the car. She blasted the radio, made sure the GPS was still set, and turned the key in the ignition. Time to put Indiana behind her.