Aron woke expecting paper. The last two mornings had come with receipts tucked under his pillow, slips shoved under his door, whispers from the town printed in faint block letters. Today—nothing.
He lay still a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for some flutter of paper. None came.
"Guess that's it," he muttered. "Silent treatment."
The garage downstairs smelled of oil and dust when he opened the door. The Impala clicked its headlights like an impatient teacher.
"You look disappointed," it said.
"I thought they'd leave me one more warning."
"Maybe silence is the warning," the car said.
"Deep for something with mismatched hubcaps."
"I heard that."
He started packing. A crate of sockets and wrenches went in the trunk. Fuses, tape, coolant. Bottles of water lined up like soldiers. The notebook, stuffed with receipts, went last. He tried to fold a blanket, failed, and shoved it on top of the tools.
The minivan in bay two spoke up. "Bring wet wipes. Nothing ruins a trip like sticky hands."
The pickup rumbled. "Forget wipes. Bring duct tape. Fixes everything, even mistakes like you."
The sedan, sulking in the corner, sighed. "Snacks. If you don't pack snacks, you'll hate yourself halfway to the next town."
"Why do I feel like I'm packing with six backseat drivers?" Aron muttered.
"Because you are," the Impala said. "It's genetic. We all complain."
He slammed the trunk and stood for a moment, staring at the shop. The walls sagged in their corners like they were tired. Even the floor seemed heavier, as if it already knew he wouldn't walk across it much longer.
Aron crossed the street to the diner.
The waitress met him at the door and didn't bother with pleasantries. She slid a single cup of coffee in front of him as soon as he sat.
"No food?" Aron asked.
"You'll eat later." She slipped the receipt under the mug.
He unfolded it. DON'T TRUST THE FIRST TURN.
Aron raised his eyebrows. "That's specific."
She leaned against the counter. "The road isn't kind to people who believe everything at face value."
"You could just say 'drive carefully.'"
"But then you wouldn't listen." She tapped the edge of the cup. "Coffee's on me. First one's always free."
"And your name," Aron said, "is it Ava today?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Names are like routes. Sometimes the shortest isn't the best."
Before he could press, she walked away.
The coffee was bitter, but he drank it anyway. The slip went into his jacket.
On the drive through town, everything looked the same but behaved differently. The barber-mayor paused sweeping his stoop and gave a small salute. Kids on bikes stopped pedaling to watch him pass, their cards clicking in the spokes like applause. A dog trotted into the street, sat down, then moved aside only after the Impala honked.
Even the houses seemed to lean closer, siding creaking like old throats clearing. Receipts fluttered in the gutters, some pinned against fences, others clinging to windows. None blew near the car.
"You feel that?" Aron asked.
"Like a funeral," the Impala said. "Except nobody baked a casserole."
The grocery clerk stood out front, holding a paper bag. He raised two fingers in a lazy salute. The post office door opened just as Aron drove by, a woman stepping out with a handful of slips that tumbled like confetti.
"They're watching," Aron said under his breath.
"Of course they are," the Impala replied. "Nobody ever really leaves Callywonka. Not properly."
The highway appeared in cracks and patches of asphalt. The fields beyond stretched flat and pale, barns leaning like drunks in the distance. Aron's chest tightened as he tightened his grip on the wheel.
"This feels wrong," he admitted.
"First steps always do," the Impala said.
Billboards lined the side of the road. The first shouted in fading red: TRY OUR BURGERS, EXIT 7. As they passed, the letters shimmered, rearranged themselves into: YOU WON'T LIKE WHAT'S AHEAD.
Aron twisted in his seat, but the words had already returned to burgers.
"Did you—"
"Yes," the Impala cut in. "Eyes front."
They rolled quiet for another few miles. Aron cracked the window, letting the air sting his cheek. His palms itched against the steering wheel.
At mile five, the road forked. Left bent toward the county line. Right curved back toward town. Aron slowed, tires crunching on gravel.
Something white lay square in the middle of the left lane.
He put the Impala in park and stepped out. Heat rose from the asphalt. He bent down and picked up the slip.
TURN BACK NOW.
The words blurred in the sunlight. He looked over his shoulder. Callywonka shimmered faint in the distance, houses crouched like they were waiting. He looked ahead. The road stretched on, cracked but endless.
The Impala called out from the window. "So? What's it going to be?"
Aron crushed the receipt in his fist. His hand shook. He shoved the paper into the glove box with the others.
"I've been turning back my whole life," he said, sliding behind the wheel.
The Impala revved, a growl that might have been laughter. "Finally."
Aron shifted into drive. The car rolled forward, past the fork, carrying him out of town.
Behind them, the road hummed like it had let something go. Ahead, the horizon stretched blank, waiting for him to fill it.