The clock on the dashboard read 11:03 when Marianne Williams finally turned off the interstate at the Ashland exit. The interior of her late model Honda Civic glowed a cool blue, pushing back the darkness outside, and the radio played so softly, she could barely make out the tune. It was late; she was exhausted. She’d been on the road for the past three and a half hours, and her sore shoulders would remind her of the long drive in the morning. But right now all she wanted was a mug of hot tea and her boyfriend Johnny’s warm body curled up beside hers in the bed they shared.
She glanced at the clock and debated calling him. Was it too late? Probably—knowing Johnny, he fell asleep in front of the television after eating takeout, and she’d walk in on a messy house she was in no mood to deal
