It was difficult for Mary to admit that most of her workout consisted of exercising poor judgment. She had a talent for picking the wrong rides home. Tonight’s mistake had seemed harmless enough: a quiet man in an old sedan offering to drive her through the foggy countryside after the last bus failed to arrive. They drove for a while without speaking. The headlights carved a pale tunnel through the mist. “You’re not from around here,” the driver finally said. Mary shook her head. “Just passing through.” “That’s what they all say.” Something about the way he said it made her glance at the rearview mirror. The back seat was empty. But the fog outside seemed thicker there, pressing against the glass like breath. “How far is the next town?” she asked. “Depends,” he said. “On what?” “On whether you’re still alive when you get there.” Mary laughed weakly. “Very funny.” The driver didn’t smile. A moment later the car slowed. “Look,” he said quietly. Mary turned in her seat. The fog behind them was lifting. But instead of the road they had just traveled, there was only a field of dark grass stretching endlessly into the night. No tire tracks. No pavement. Nothing. Mary’s laughter faded. The driver sighed. “You really shouldn’t accept rides from strangers,” he said. The road behind them disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.