His body is wire-taut with tension, like any sudden movement on his part or mine might cause him to snap into pieces. I’m not sure if touching him will help or make things worse, so I stay still. The driver, a guy with white hair and wearing a black Coal City Nights baseball hat, mutters to himself and finally manages to navigate out of the turnaround without running anyone over. As soon as we turn out onto the road, the muscles in my stomach relax a little, but dread creeps in almost immediately. Now that we’re away from the hotel, I have no idea what will happen next or even where we’re going. My heartbeat ratchets up, and I fight the urge to scoot deeper in the van. “So, yeah, hi, I’m Emily,” the girl in the passenger seat says uncertainly, twisting to face us. She’s about my age, maybe a little older. She’s wearing an ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, and a black T-shirt with Coal City Nights in swirling cursive print. Her skin has the healthy glow of someone who goes outside, and her blond hair is pulled into a perky ponytail that brushes her shoulders.
