"Lost Signal":
I remember the day I decided to take my son on that trip. We’d been talking about it for weeks — just the two of us, a little adventure through the national parks. Tommy was six, at that perfect age where the world still felt full of magic and mystery. He was thrilled at the idea of camping, seeing wild places, and sleeping under the stars.
I picked up the rental car at a lot near the Las Vegas airport — a dusty white Jeep, the kind that looked built for desert roads and forgotten trails. The clerk handed me the keys with a practiced smile. “She’s got a built-in GPS,” he said. “Just type where you’re going, and it’ll get you there. Easy as that.”
I remember thinking how simple it sounded.
Tommy bounced in the back seat as we drove away, his little backpack beside him. “Mom, can we see the big sand dunes first?” he asked, eyes bright with excitement.
“Sure thing, kiddo,” I said, catching his grin in the rearview mirror. “Death Valley’s not too far. We’ll start there.”
I entered Death Valley National Park into the GPS. A calm, feminine voice replied instantly, “Proceed to the highlighted route. Estimated time: two hours.” The reassurance in her tone made me feel oddly safe, like we weren’t alone out there.
We stopped at a gas station for snacks — bottles of water, a few bags of chips, and a box of Pop-Tarts. Tommy crunched chips in the backseat and talked about dinosaurs he was sure had once roamed the desert. I smiled and listened, feeling the quiet joy of having him all to myself, away from everything else.
As we neared the park, the GPS directed us to turn off the main highway. “In one mile, turn right onto Harry Wade Road,” it said. The sign was old, sun-bleached, almost unreadable, but it matched the screen.
“Here we go,” I said, steering us off the pavement.
The road began wide and dusty, the Jeep’s tires crunching over gravel. A lizard darted across our path, and Tommy squealed with laughter. “Look, Mom! It’s running from us!”
We laughed together. For a while, it was perfect.
But as the miles passed, the road narrowed, the terrain grew rougher. The Jeep jolted over rocks, and dust clouds rose behind us. The GPS chimed softly: “Recalculating… Continue straight for fifteen miles.”
I frowned, glancing at the display. The line still looked solid, pointing ahead into the endless tan horizon.
“Is this the right way, Mom?” Tommy asked, his voice smaller now.
“I think so,” I said, trying to sound sure. “The GPS knows where we’re going.”
We drove on. The world outside turned empty — no more tire tracks, no fences, no power lines. Just dry earth, scattered sagebrush, and distant ridges wavering in the heat. The AC struggled against the rising temperature, and the light shimmered like molten glass. I handed Tommy a water bottle. “Drink, sweetheart. It’s getting hot.”
After another hour, the road turned to rubble. “Turn left in half a mile,” the GPS instructed. But when we reached the mark, there was no left turn — just a faint track dissolving into desert scrub.
“Mom, that’s not a road,” Tommy said quietly.
“It’s probably an old trail,” I said, though doubt prickled in my chest. “We’ll be fine.”
I turned the wheel anyway. The Jeep lurched, bumping and sliding over loose sand. “Recalculating,” the GPS said again, its voice as calm as ever. “Proceed straight.”
Straight into nowhere.
The heat pressed harder. Sweat rolled down my back. The world shimmered white and gold, and the hum of the engine seemed to echo against nothing. The GPS map still showed a line heading to the park entrance — but the land around us felt ancient and untouched, a place long abandoned.
“Mom, I’m thirsty,” Tommy said.
I passed him another bottle, noticing the temperature gauge on the dash — 111°F. My phone had no signal. The Jeep’s tank was half-empty. Still, I told myself to trust the machine.
Then, suddenly, the sand deepened. The tires spun. I pressed the gas. The wheels dug in. “Hold on,” I said, trying again — nothing. We were stuck.
Tommy’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?”
“We just need to push a little,” I said, forcing calm.
We climbed out, the heat hitting like a wall. The air shimmered, dry and metallic. I knelt and tried digging the sand away from the tires with my hands, but it was like scooping fire. Tommy helped for a while, his little hands red with grit, but we couldn’t move it.
“Let’s get back in the car,” I said finally. “Someone will come by.”
But no one did. Hours passed. The road was silent, the desert endless.
The sun sank low, and the light turned orange, then violet. Tommy leaned against me, restless and thirsty. We shared another bottle, taking small sips.
“Tell me a story, Mom,” he said softly.
I forced a smile. “Once upon a time, there was a brave boy and his mom who went on a great adventure…” I made it up as I went, each word trembling under the weight of my fear.
The GPS screen still glowed faintly in the dark, the word Recalculating frozen in place like a cruel joke.
Night fell cold. We huddled together in the seats. Tommy slept fitfully, his small body shivering under my jacket. “I’m scared,” he whispered once.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll be fine in the morning.”
But I didn’t sleep. I stared out into the dark, the vast silence pressing in, wondering how far we were from anyone, from help, from life.
The next day was worse. The sun came back with vengeance. We finished our last water before noon. Tommy’s lips cracked, his voice fading. I spelled SOS across the Jeep’s windshield with white medical tape — the only thing I had left to make us visible.
“Mom, my head hurts,” he murmured.
I tried to sound brave. “We’ll walk a little, see if we can find water.”
We didn’t make it far. The heat was unbearable, the sand like coals under our shoes. After a mile, Tommy stumbled and begged to rest. We turned back, defeated.
Inside the Jeep, the air was suffocating. We shared the last Pop-Tart, dry and tasteless. Tommy chewed slowly, then whispered, “I can’t swallow.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Just hold on, baby. Help’s coming.”
But even as I said it, I no longer believed it.
By the third day, his skin was hot to the touch. His eyes glassy. “Mom,” he whispered, “I see Grandpa. He’s talking to me.”
My heart broke. “Grandpa’s not here, sweetheart. Stay with me, please.”
He smiled faintly. “He says it’s okay.”
That night, I held him close as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His breathing slowed, then stopped.
“Tommy?” I whispered. “No… no, no, no.”
I screamed into the empty desert, but there was only silence.
I don’t remember much after that. Just the heat, the stillness, the voice of the GPS repeating, “Recalculating,” over and over, like some cruel mantra.
On the fifth day, a sound broke the silence — an engine, faint but real. I stumbled out of the Jeep, waving my arms. “Help! Please!”
A park ranger’s truck appeared through the dust. A woman jumped out, running toward me. “Oh my God — are you okay?”
“My son,” I rasped. “My son’s dead.”
She caught me as I fell, her voice trembling as she called for help. Water touched my lips, cool and impossible. Then everything faded.
When I woke in the hospital, they said it was a miracle I survived.
That GPS — that calm, polite voice that was supposed to guide us — had led us off the map, into a place where roads no longer existed. I used to think of it as a tool, a convenience. Now, I hear it in my dreams, whispering directions into the void.
Recalculating.
Always recalculating.
And always wrong.
"Silent Pursuit":
I had just flown into Atlanta for a business conference, exhausted and irritated after a three-hour delay and a turbulent flight. All I wanted was a quiet drive to the hotel and a hot shower. The rental counter at Hartsfield-Jackson was crowded with the usual mix of tourists and business travelers, everyone juggling luggage and impatience.
When my turn came, the agent—a woman named Lisa with tired eyes and a polite, rehearsed smile—scanned my reservation. “Compact SUV, right? You’re all set.” She slid the keys across the counter. “It’s parked in section D-14. Built-in GPS navigation—just type in your destination.”
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
Outside, the humid evening air hit me like a wall. The parking lot shimmered under orange sodium lights, rows of vehicles stretching endlessly. My SUV was a slate-gray crossover—clean, with that faint new car scent that always feels both comforting and artificial. I tossed my luggage in the back, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and punched in the hotel address. The GPS voice chirped back: “Route calculated. Estimated arrival: thirty-one minutes.”
Everything felt routine as I merged onto the highway. Atlanta’s skyline glowed faintly ahead, a mosaic of lights beneath a restless sky. I turned on a podcast, trying to shake the travel fatigue.
Then, fifteen minutes in, the GPS screen blinked. The map froze for a second, then flickered back to life. “Recalculating route,” the voice said, suddenly directing me toward an exit earlier than planned.
“Alright,” I muttered, assuming construction ahead. I followed the new directions, the city thinning behind me as the road narrowed into dim, tree-lined streets.
That’s when I noticed the police cruiser.
At first, it was just a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, distant but steady. Then, mile by mile, it crept closer until it was trailing only a few car lengths behind. No lights, no sirens—just there. Watching.
I checked my speed. Perfectly legal. Signals? Used them. Maybe just a coincidence. Still, something in my gut twisted uneasily.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. It was David, my colleague from the conference.
“Hey, you land okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, finally. GPS took me off the main route for some reason. There’s a cop behind me now—been following for a while.”
“Probably just patrolling,” he said lightly. “You’re fine. See you at the hotel.”
I hung up. But the cruiser didn’t back off.
Moments later, red and blue lights erupted behind me, cutting through the dark. Siren. I felt my heart leap into my throat. I pulled over to the shoulder of the empty road, hands on the wheel, breath quick and uneven.
The officer’s voice thundered through a loudspeaker: “Step out of the vehicle, ma’am! Hands where I can see them!”
“What’s going on?” I called, voice shaking as I cracked the door open.
“Out! Now!”
Two more cruisers arrived, tires screeching. Within seconds, three officers surrounded the SUV, weapons drawn. One barked, “Face down! On the ground!”
I froze, terror coursing through me. “Please—I didn’t do anything! It’s a rental!”
Cold gravel bit into my palms as I dropped. My cheek pressed against the pavement, heart pounding in my ears. One officer yanked my arms behind me, snapping metal cuffs around my wrists.
“This vehicle is reported stolen,” he said flatly. “You’re under arrest.”
“Stolen? No—no, I just rented it from the airport! My contract’s in the glove box!”
They didn’t respond. Another officer rifled through my car while the first recited my rights in a detached monotone. I couldn’t stop trembling.
Minutes crawled by before one officer finally radioed dispatch, reading my information aloud. “Jessica Harper. Avis rental from ATL.”
The wait felt endless. I could hear my own breathing over the distant hum of the highway. Then, a crackle from the radio: “Confirmed. False report. Rental company error. Release her.”
The officer sighed, lowering his weapon. “You’re clear, ma’am. You can stand.”
They uncuffed me. My wrists throbbed, red and raw. “A system glitch,” one officer muttered. “Happens more often than you’d think. Their tracking flagged it as stolen.”
“Tracking?” I asked, voice hoarse.
“Yeah. The GPS. Rental companies monitor every car in real-time. If something’s off—like a late payment—it auto-reports as stolen.”
He didn’t look at me as he walked back to his cruiser.
I sat behind the wheel afterward, hands trembling so hard I could barely hold them steady. I drove straight to the hotel, but the feeling of being watched lingered.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the red and blue lights, the guns, the gravel beneath my face. The next morning, I called the rental company.
After a long hold, a man named Greg came on. “Ms. Harper, I see there was an incident last night. We’re terribly sorry—a software error flagged your vehicle incorrectly.”
“A software error?” I snapped. “I had three guns pointed at me!”
“We understand your frustration,” he said smoothly. “It was an unfortunate mix-up. We’ll credit your rental and offer compensation.”
But something about his tone was rehearsed. Too casual.
From my hotel room, I started searching online. What I found made my stomach drop—hundreds of reports, some nearly identical to mine. People arrested at gunpoint. Parents handcuffed in front of their kids. A man jailed for weeks after Hertz falsely reported his rental stolen.
It wasn’t a glitch. It was a pattern.
That evening, driving to dinner with David, the GPS spoke again—calm, mechanical: “Traffic ahead. Recalculating route.”
I ignored it this time. But soon after, I noticed a white sedan in the mirror. It matched every turn, two cars behind.
“Do you see that car?” I asked David quietly.
He glanced back. “The white one? Yeah, it’s been following for a while.”
I pressed the accelerator slightly. It did too. My pulse quickened.
“Call 911,” I said.
Before the operator could answer, the sedan pulled up beside us. The driver—a man in a dark suit—rolled down his window and flashed a badge-like ID. “Pull over! Rental recovery!” he shouted.
“What?” I yelled.
“Your vehicle’s flagged—stop now!”
Instead, I veered toward a busy intersection, laying on the horn. The man hesitated, then backed off, disappearing down a side street.
At the police station later, the officer on duty confirmed it. “No active flag on your rental now,” he said, frowning. “But yeah—we’ve seen this. Those companies hire private agents to recover cars. They use GPS tracking to locate vehicles—sometimes before confirming anything’s wrong.”
“Like repo men?” I asked.
“Exactly. Some of them get… overzealous.”
When my lawyer friend helped me dig deeper, we discovered that my SUV had been previously rented by someone who’d defaulted on payment. The system had automatically linked my contract to that same vehicle ID, triggering the alerts. When I called Greg again to confront him, he insisted, “It wasn’t intentional. The system notifies recovery teams automatically.”
I hung up, sick to my stomach.
I switched rentals the next morning, but even behind a new wheel, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being tracked. Every detour suggestion, every flicker on the GPS screen made me flinch.
Weeks later, back home, I still couldn’t shake it. Every police car in my mirror made my heart skip. Every GPS prompt felt invasive.
It’s strange how technology built to make life easier can turn on you so fast.
Now, I always ask—Does your car have tracking?—before signing anything. And whenever possible, I drive my own.
Because once you’ve had a gun in your face for something you didn’t do, that trust—between you and a machine, between you and a voice guiding you down the road—never really comes back.
"RE-ROUTED":
I left my husband, Robert, after the fight that left bruises on my arms—ugly, purple reminders of the man he’d become. He worked in law enforcement, which somehow made it worse. He was always calm, always in control, always “knowing what’s best.” But that control had turned dark, suffocating. That night, when his temper finally snapped, something inside me broke for good.
I didn’t wait for him to come home. I threw a few things into a duffel bag, grabbed my laptop, and booked a rental car under my name. Then I drove to the airport lot before dawn, heart pounding the entire way.
The rental agent, a young woman named Karen, was cheerful in the way people are when they don’t realize your world is falling apart. “This one’s brand-new,” she said, sliding a key fob across the counter. “Full package—GPS, app connectivity, remote start, lane assist, all that good stuff.”
I forced a smile. “Perfect.”
The SUV was sleek and black, the kind that practically whispered run. I drove until the city lights faded into the night, heading toward my cousin Elena’s house three states away. The hum of the tires was the only sound I trusted.
Hours later, as dawn spilled pale light across the highway, my phone buzzed. A text from Robert.
Robert: Drive safe, honey. That SUV handles well on highways.
I nearly dropped the phone. How could he possibly know what I was driving? I hadn’t told him anything—not the car, not my route. My hands trembled on the wheel.
At the next diner, I pulled into the parking lot, my stomach twisting. Maybe he’d guessed? But no—he knew exactly what kind of vehicle I had. I opened the rental app I’d downloaded earlier, the one that let me check fuel efficiency and mileage. A thought hit me like ice water. We’d shared accounts for years—banking, email, even the occasional password “for convenience.” He must’ve found a way in.
I called the rental company. “Hi, this is Anna,” I began, but my voice shook. “I think someone else might have access to my car’s app. Can you revoke it?”
The rep on the other end sounded polite, detached. “Can I have your reservation number, ma’am?”
I read it off, gripping the phone like a lifeline. There was a pause.
“Ma’am, it looks like this reservation was made under a Robert Whitaker. You’re listed as the authorized driver. We can’t change account permissions without his consent.”
My pulse roared in my ears. “That’s impossible—I booked it myself. I used my card.”
“I’m seeing his credit card on file,” the rep said gently. “Maybe there was a mix-up?”
There wasn’t. There never was, not with Robert. He’d planned this. He’d known I would run.
“Please,” I said quietly, panic rising in my throat. “He’s dangerous. You have to disable the app.”
“I’m so sorry, but without his authorization—”
I hung up.
Back on the highway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Then the dashboard screen flickered. A soft ding, and a message appeared:
Remote access engaged.
The air conditioning roared to life, freezing air blasting from the vents. I turned it off—seconds later, it came back on. My phone lit up again. Incoming call: Robert.
I shouldn’t have answered, but I did.
“Why are you running?” His voice was calm. Controlled. “I can see you’re on Route 10. Pull over. Let’s talk.”
I hung up. Another text followed.
Robert: I know where you’re stopping next.
The GPS chimed suddenly. “Rerouting to new destination.” The map zoomed in on an empty stretch of road through a wooded area—nowhere near Elena’s.
I tried to ignore it, but every few minutes, it rerouted again, stubbornly pushing me toward isolation.
When I stopped at a gas station hours later, the world felt like it had shrunk to that car and his voice echoing in my head. I got out, scanning the lot. A lone pickup sat idling near the corner. As I pumped gas, I heard the click of my SUV’s locks disengaging.
I froze.
I jumped back inside and slammed the doors shut, locking them manually. My heart thudded in my chest as I tore back onto the road. The headlights from the pickup followed moments later, steady, matching my speed.
I called Elena. My voice came out ragged. “He’s tracking me through the car, Elena. The app—he’s controlling it.”
“Anna, listen to me,” she said, steady but urgent. “Drive to the nearest police station. Don’t stop anywhere else. Go now.”
“I will.”
But as I accelerated, the engine lagged. The display read: Performance Mode Adjusted. My car was fighting me.
Robert’s name lit up again. Against my better judgment, I answered.
“You can’t hide,” he said softly. “The app tells me everything—your speed, your route, your fuel level. Come home, Anna. Before this gets worse.”
“How did you do this?” I whispered.
He laughed, low and familiar. “You really don’t remember? I helped you set up the rental account last week. You were going to see your cousin, remember? I told you to let me ‘handle it.’”
My stomach turned. I remembered now—his hands on my laptop, his voice saying, You always mess up forms, let me do it.
The headlights behind me grew closer. Then I saw it—the town limits sign, and beyond it, a squat brick building with a glowing blue sign: POLICE.
I veered into the parking lot, tires screeching. The pickup slowed as it passed under a streetlight. I caught a glimpse of his face—expressionless, eyes locked on mine. Then it was gone.
Inside, I stumbled to the counter. “My husband—he’s tracking my car. He’s controlling it remotely. Please, you have to help me.”
Officer Grant listened quietly as I told him everything. He had the SUV examined. There was no physical tracker, but the access logs from the app told the story—multiple remote sessions from Robert’s IP address.
“This kind of thing’s becoming common,” Grant said grimly. “These new cars, they’re convenient—but they’re dangerous in the wrong hands.”
They called Robert. He denied everything, claimed he was worried for my safety. But the digital footprints didn’t lie. Days later, he was arrested for electronic stalking and unlawful surveillance.
I returned the SUV and bought an old, dusty sedan with no Wi-Fi, no screens, no apps—just a key that turned in an ignition.
Still, some nights, when I glance in the rearview mirror, I swear I can feel him behind me—somewhere in the glow of distant headlights, still trying to find me in the static.
"System Override":
I flew into Denver for what was supposed to be a quick two-day work meeting—just long enough to justify the flight, not long enough to feel settled. My car was back home in Chicago, so I’d reserved a midsize sedan from a small rental company near the airport, one of those independent places tucked between the big-name lots.
The office looked plain: fluorescent lights, laminated posters about “insurance options,” a faint smell of burnt coffee. Behind the counter, a man with thinning hair and a faded name tag that read TOM slid a clipboard toward me.
“This one’s ready to go,” he said, his tone brisk, like he’d repeated the line all day. “GPS is built in. Just punch in your destination.”
“Unlimited miles?” I asked.
“For your plan, yeah,” he said, glancing at my license before meeting my eyes again. “Drive safe out there.”
I nodded, signed where he pointed, and he handed over a single key on a plain black fob. No friendly chat, no small talk.
The car—a dull gray Toyota—sat in a corner of the lot, still beading with wash water. Inside, it smelled faintly of new plastic and disinfectant wipes. I tossed my bag in the back seat, adjusted the mirrors, and entered the hotel address into the GPS. The robotic voice announced a route—about an hour south toward Colorado Springs. Easy. Straightforward.
I merged onto I-25 just as dusk began to melt over the mountains. The engine purred steady beneath me, the traffic thinned, and the radio hummed low. Twenty minutes later, the GPS chimed.
“Roadwork ahead. Rerouting to alternate path.”
The display blinked, redrawing the map and guiding me off the main highway. I hesitated, but it was already suggesting the next turn—onto a smaller two-lane road cutting through open fields. I figured it knew better.
I called my coworker Lisa on speaker. “Hey, just left the airport,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Meeting’s at eight tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”
The call crackled and dropped as the cell signal weakened. I drove on, the sky deepening into blue-gray twilight. The road narrowed, the pavement roughened, and trees began closing in like dark walls on either side. Potholes made the car jolt, and I had to slow to keep from bottoming out.
Still, the GPS insisted I was on track.
That’s when I noticed the black truck in the rearview mirror. It had been behind me since the detour—hanging back, matching my speed. I slowed a little to let it pass, but it slowed too.
“Come on…” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
The GPS beeped again. “Turn left in two hundred feet.”
The turn wasn’t a real road—just a gravel track cutting into the trees. I hesitated. The voice repeated itself, sharper this time: “Turn left.”
“Recalculating would add twenty minutes,” the screen warned when I didn’t move.
Against my better judgment, I turned. Gravel crunched under the tires, and a cloud of dust rose behind me.
I redialed Lisa. “Hey, you there?”
“Signal’s bad,” she said through static.
“The GPS took me some weird back way. There’s this truck behind me—it’s been following.”
“What? Pull over, see if it passes.”
“I—” I didn’t want to. But the track narrowed, forcing me to slow anyway. The truck drew closer until its headlights glared in the rearview mirror, bleaching the inside of the car white.
Then, without warning, the GPS chimed again. “Destination in five miles.”
Five miles? Out here? There was nothing ahead but forest and shadows.
The engine sputtered. The car jerked once, then died. I twisted the key—nothing. The dashboard lights flickered, then went black.
I sat there, heart hammering.
Behind me, the truck rolled to a stop. The low rumble of its engine filled the silence.
I locked the doors.
The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out—tall, wearing a dark jacket. He walked slowly toward my window, stopping just short of the glass.
“Need a hand?” he called, voice calm, almost friendly.
I cracked the window an inch. “I’m fine. I’ve called for roadside.”
He smiled faintly, but his eyes didn’t. “Out here? You won’t get a signal. Saw you turn off the highway. That GPS in those rentals—glitches all the time.”
Something about the way he said rentals made my stomach twist. “How do you know it’s a rental?” I asked.
He leaned closer, resting his hand on the roof. “I work for the company. Tom sent me to check on you. Said you might get lost.”
My pulse jumped. “Tom?”
“Yeah,” he said. “He tracks the cars. For safety.”
“Tracks them?”
He nodded. “GPS logs, internal beacons—standard stuff. We’ve had thefts. You veered off-route.”
It sounded rehearsed. Too smooth.
“Open up,” he said. “I’ll jump the battery. You’ll be back on the road in no time.”
I shook my head. “I’ll wait for roadside assistance.”
His smile thinned. “Lady, it’s getting dark. You don’t want to sit here alone.”
There was something in his tone—a warning, not concern. He reached for the handle, rattling it when it didn’t open.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Don’t make this hard.”
Panic hit like ice water. I grabbed my bag, searching for anything sharp—a pen, keys, anything.
He stepped back and pulled something from his jacket pocket. A small black remote. He pressed it.
Click.
The locks popped open.
My breath caught. “How—”
He yanked the door. “Out. Now.”
I swung my bag, hitting his shoulder, and bolted out the other side of the car, sprinting into the trees. Branches tore at my jacket and skin, but I didn’t stop.
“Hey!” he shouted behind me. “You can’t run forever!”
I ducked behind a thick pine trunk, crouching low. My chest burned. The sound of his footsteps crunched closer through the brush, then paused.
“I know you’re here,” he called, voice steady. “Tracker shows the car—and I can find you too.”
Tracker. Not just GPS. Something else—hidden. A separate device, maybe. I’d read stories about stalkers using them, but never imagined something like that could happen to me.
He moved again, footsteps receding. “Fine,” he said finally, voice distant. “Stay out here. See how you like it.”
The truck engine roared to life. Tires spun on gravel. Then silence.
I waited—five minutes, ten, maybe more—before creeping back toward the road. My hands shook as I gripped the car door. The keys were still inside. I turned them in the ignition. The engine sputtered, then caught weakly.
The GPS screen was blank now, like it had been reset.
I backed up, turned around, and drove until I saw the faint glow of the highway in the distance. My phone finally regained signal, bars flickering into life.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I told the operator everything—the detour, the truck, the man who said he worked for the rental company and could unlock the doors remotely.
The dispatcher took my details and told me to get somewhere public. I didn’t stop until I reached a gas station with bright lights and cameras.
I dropped the car off that night, keys through the after-hours slot.
Two weeks later, a detective called. “We checked the vehicle,” he said. “There was a second GPS unit hidden under the dashboard—not factory standard. The rental company’s owner denies installing it. Tom’s… missing.”
“Missing?”
“Quit the next day. We’re investigating.”
I haven’t rented a car since. I drive my own everywhere, even cross-country if I have to.
But sometimes, when I’m alone on a quiet road and the GPS chimes unexpectedly, I feel that same cold pulse in my chest—the one that whispers maybe it wasn’t just Tom. Maybe someone else still knows where I am.