It was 2:17 a.m. on the empty highway between Amarillo and the edge of nowhere. The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed like dying flies. Caleb, a trucker three weeks on the road, poured coffee so black it swallowed light.
The screen went black. Then, in white text:
Behind the counter, an old TV tuned to static whispered snow. For a moment, the interference shaped itself into Cyrillic text: – Near Dark.
