There's A Man Outside My Truck Wearing My Jacket, He Has My Face.

I woke with my forehead against the steering wheel and my neck bent at an angle that made no sense. For a few seconds I didn't move. The cab was dark except for the weak light from the dashboard. My eyes hurt behind them. Not a sharp pain.

Just a dull pressure like I'd been awake for two days. The truck was parked. That was the first thing I understood. The second was that the engine wasn't running. I lifted my head and looked through the windshield.

Big Chestnut sat outside in the dark, although I didn't know how I knew it was Big Chestnut. The low brick restroom block was there. The vending machines beside it were glowing. The lot was there too. The other trucks weren't.

I checked the clock on the dash. Four seventeen. I'd been driving through the night. I remembered the road coming up through the windshield in pieces. White lines.

Headlights. The green glow of signs. I remembered coffee that tasted burnt even before I drank it. I remembered calling Evelyn. I didn't remember pulling into the rest area.

I didn't remember backing into the space. I didn't remember setting the brake or shutting down the truck. My hand was still near the wheel, and my fingers felt stiff from sleeping on them. The phone was in the cup holder. I picked it up and woke the screen.

The call with Evelyn was there. Her name showed at the top, but there was no duration beneath it. No twenty minutes. No forty-three minutes. Nothing that told me how long we'd been talking.

I could still hear her voice. Did you remember, or did you just remember to call? She'd said it quietly. That was worse than yelling. Evelyn had gotten good at keeping her voice low when she was close to ending a conversation.

I remembered telling her I was on the road. I remembered saying I'd be home after the delivery. She'd asked when that would be. I hadn't known. I said I'd figure it out.

Then she said I was making another promise I wouldn't keep. I tried to answer. I remembered the first part of what I said. I tried to tell her I would be home after the delivery. I tried to tell her I meant it this time.

The call ended before I finished. I looked at the phone again. Still no duration. Just her name and the empty space where the time should have been. There were no missed calls.

No text from her. Nothing else that explained why I was sitting in a parked truck at four seventeen in the morning with no memory of getting there. I turned toward the sleeper and checked the refrigerated trailer through the side mirror. The unit was dark. No vibration came through the frame.

No low mechanical hum. That wasn't right either. The load needed to stay cold, and the reefer usually announced itself even when I wasn't paying attention. I started the truck clock again with the little button below the display. It stayed on four seventeen.

The lot stayed quiet. No diesel engines idling. No air brakes releasing. No radios talking inside the cabs. During the night there were usually trucks coming and going at all hours.

Somebody would be walking toward the restroom with a coffee cup. Somebody else would be standing under the lights smoking. There was nobody. I opened the door and climbed down. Cold air came up through my jacket.

It smelled like diesel and cut grass. The grass smell was too fresh for the hour, sharp and green around the edges, while the asphalt held the stale odor of fuel and old rain. I stood there listening. Nothing moved. The vending machines were lit beside the restroom block.

Their fluorescent panels made the brick wall look gray. One machine had chips and candy arranged behind the glass. The other had bottles and cans in neat rows. I walked over and pressed the button for a coffee. The machine buzzed.

A row of numbers on the display went dark. For a moment the whole screen was black. Then the numbers came back exactly where they had been. I pressed the button again. The machine hummed like it was thinking about it.

Nothing dropped. No cup appeared. The display went dark a second time and returned to the same row of numbers. I stepped back. It was probably broken.

Machines broke all the time. That was the simple answer, and I needed simple answers. I looked across the lot toward the interstate. The entrance to Route thirty-three was beyond the trees and the guardrail. I walked that way with my hands in my jacket pockets, trying not to look at the empty spaces where the other trucks should've been.

The road was completely empty. Both lanes stretched away through the darkness. No headlights came over the rise. No red lights disappeared in the distance. I waited for the sound of tires, but there wasn't even that.

I stood there longer than I meant to. A road like that was never empty. Not around here. Even if I didn't see a vehicle, I'd hear one. The sound would carry through the trees.

It would be there underneath everything else. I heard nothing. I went back to the restroom block and pushed open the door. The lights inside were on. A row of sinks ran beneath a mirror, and above them was a digital clock.

Four seventeen. I checked my phone. Four seventeen. I looked at the clock on the dashboard through the open doorway of the truck. Four seventeen.

I watched the restroom clock for what felt like a full minute. The red numbers didn't flicker. They didn't lose a segment. They just stayed there. I checked the second hand on my phone by locking and waking the screen.

It showed four seventeen again. The clocks were malfunctioning. That had to be it. The lot had emptied while I slept. Maybe there'd been some kind of maintenance issue on the road.

Maybe the power had gone out and come back. Maybe I'd been more tired than I realized and driven in without remembering it. I didn't like any of those explanations, but they were explanations. I washed my face in cold water and looked at myself in the mirror. Short brown hair flattened on one side.

Tired eyes. My skin looked gray under the fluorescent lights. Evelyn needed me home. That was the plan I could still control. Finish the delivery.

Get back on the road. Reach her before the day was over, if I had to drive straight through again. One step at a time. I went outside and climbed back into the cab. The seat groaned under me.

I set the phone in the cup holder and put my hands on the wheel. The truck clock still read four seventeen. The phone still read four seventeen. Behind me the vending machines buzzed beside the empty restroom block. I pulled the door shut.

I turned the key and the engine started right away. The cab shook under me. The dashboard lights came on, and the gauges moved the way they were supposed to. I switched on the headlights. They lit up the pavement in front of the truck and caught the edge of the restroom building behind me.

The truck worked. That was something. I checked the clock again. Four seventeen. The phone in the cup holder showed the same time.

I left it there and pulled out of the space. The lot looked different from the driver’s seat. Not better. Just smaller. The restroom block sat behind me on the passenger side, and the rows of empty spaces stretched ahead under the lights.

I followed the signs toward the interstate. Route thirty-three was beyond the trees. I could see the guardrail where the road bent toward the entrance ramp. The truck rolled over the rough pavement and climbed toward it. I kept both hands on the wheel.

The ramp curved through the trees. I expected to see the interstate at the end of it. The lanes. The signs. Maybe the lights of Columbus in the distance.

Instead there was another curve, tighter than the first, and an overhead sign hanging between two metal posts. I passed beneath it. The sign was green with white lettering. I didn't read the words. I saw the shape of it and the two dark supports and the strip of reflected light along its lower edge.

Then the trees opened up. Big Chestnut was in front of me. I was coming into the lot from the other side. The restroom block stood across the pavement with its brick wall and glowing vending machines. The empty truck spaces ran along my left.

The entrance sign was ahead. I hit the brakes. The truck stopped near the first row of spaces. For a few seconds I just sat there with my foot pressed down and the engine running. I looked in the mirrors.

There was no ramp behind me. No trees closing over the road. Just the lot I'd left less than a minute earlier. I put the truck in reverse and backed away from the entrance. Maybe I'd missed a turn.

Maybe the ramp split somewhere and I'd taken the wrong lane without seeing it. The sign could've been pointing toward the service road. I hadn't been paying close enough attention. That was the simple answer. I turned around and drove back toward the on-ramp.

This time I stayed in the left lane. The road curved through the trees. I watched for the sign. I watched the pavement. I watched the shoulder for any place where the ramp might divide.

The trees looked the same on both sides, packed close together and black beyond the reach of the headlights. The sign appeared ahead. I passed beneath it and came out beside Big Chestnut again. The same restroom block. The same vending machines.

The same entrance sign. The same clock glowing red through the front window. Four seventeen. I pulled onto the shoulder and shut off the truck. The engine ticked after it stopped.

I opened the door and climbed down with the tire iron from behind the seat. I didn't know why I brought it. Maybe I wanted to leave something behind that couldn't be mistaken for a bad memory. The tire iron was cold in my hand. I walked to the edge of the entrance and dragged the end across the pavement.

It made a pale line through the dirt. I put the tire iron back in the cab and started the engine again. The mark was still there beside the entrance when I pulled away. I took the ramp for the third time. I changed lanes twice while I was on it.

Once to the right. Then back to the left. The truck tires crossed the painted line and rolled over the rough strip near the shoulder. I checked the mirrors after each move. Nothing changed.

There was no other traffic. No headlights. No road noise except my own tires and the engine working under the hood. The ramp bent through the trees. The overhead sign waited in the same place.

I passed underneath it. Big Chestnut appeared ahead of me. This time I didn't brake right away. I kept going until the entrance sign was close enough to read. The sign was the one I'd seen from inside the lot.

The pavement had the same broken patch near the edge. The vending machines were glowing beside the restroom block. I stopped beside the mark. The pale line I'd made was there on the pavement. It hadn't moved.

It hadn't faded. It sat beside the entrance exactly where I'd left it, even though I'd just come back from the other direction. I got out and walked around to look at it. The mark was only a few feet long. A crooked scrape through the dirt and grit.

I touched it with the toe of my boot. The pavement underneath was solid. I looked back toward the ramp. It disappeared into the trees. I could've taken it again.

I could've driven until the tank was empty. I could've kept trying the same road and expecting it to become a different road. But I already knew what would happen. The truck would curve through the trees. The sign would hang over me.

Big Chestnut would be waiting on the other side. I parked near the restroom block and left the engine running while I got out. Then I changed my mind and shut it off. The lot was too quiet with the engine going. It made the silence around it feel arranged.

I took my phone and the tire iron. The guardrail ran along the edge of the property. On the other side was a ditch and a line of trees. I followed it on foot, keeping the metal rail on my right. The ground was uneven and wet in places.

My boots sank into the soft dirt, then struck stones hidden under the grass. I told myself I was only walking to find another road. The tree line went farther than it looked from the lot. The floodlights disappeared behind me after a few minutes. The darkness between the trunks was thick enough that I kept the phone light on, even though it barely showed anything beyond my boots.

I followed the guardrail around one bend and then another. The metal stayed beside me. The trees stayed on the other side. Every so often I looked back, but the lot was gone. There was no light from the vending machines.

No red clock in the restroom window. I kept walking. After a while my forehead started hurting where the skin was split. Sweat gathered under my cap even though the air was cold. I wiped it with the back of my hand and saw a dark smear on my fingers.

One step at a time, I said. My voice sounded wrong out there. Too close. Like someone else had spoken just behind me. I stopped and listened.

Nothing. I walked on. The guardrail curved away from the trees and then turned back again. I passed a section with a bent reflector. Later I passed another one that looked exactly the same.

I stopped beside it and checked the scratches in the metal. There were three thin marks near the bottom. I didn't remember seeing them before. I kept following the rail for what felt like an hour. I checked the phone several times, but the screen still showed four seventeen.

I stopped checking after that. The time wasn't helping me. The darkness began to thin around the trees. I saw light ahead and moved toward it. The guardrail ended near a patch of pavement.

I stepped through the grass and came out beside the restroom block. The vending machines were still lit. The digital clock above the sinks showed four seventeen. I stood there with the tire iron hanging at my side. Then I stepped back onto the pavement beside the restroom block and saw my tire-iron mark beside the entrance again.

I turned away from the mark and saw another truck at the fuel island. It was sitting under the lights with the engine running. The cab was the same dark color as mine. Same shape. Same company markings on the trailer.

Even the mud streak along the lower panel matched the one on my trailer, a long brown smear that started behind the wheels and angled up toward the back. I stood beside the restroom block and looked at it. The truck was pointed toward the exit. Its headlights were off, but the running lights made a pale line around the cab.

Diesel smoke drifted from the exhaust and hung low over the pavement. I could hear the engine idling. A steady vibration. Normal enough that it made everything else feel worse. My truck was parked near the building.

I could see it through the windshield, dark and empty. The second truck had the same cracked passenger mirror. Same crack running across the glass from the lower corner. Same strip of black tape around the mirror housing. I put the tire iron down beside the curb.

Maybe I was looking at my own truck from the wrong angle. Maybe the lot had more than one entrance and I was still caught in some kind of loop I didn't understand. The same truck could've been here the whole time. I could've driven around it without noticing. That was the simple answer.

I took a few steps toward the fuel island. The man leaning against the cab wore a Carhartt jacket. My Carhartt jacket. The sleeves were faded at the elbows, and there was a dark grease mark near the right pocket. I knew that mark.

I'd put it there loading the trailer outside Dayton. The work boots were mine too. Brown leather. Worn down on the outside of the left heel. He had one ankle crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest.

The posture looked familiar. Not because people didn't stand that way. Because I stood that way when I was tired and didn't want to admit it. The man looked toward the truck, then out across the lot. I stopped near the edge of the curb.

The vending machines buzzed behind me. Their light reached across the pavement in a weak blue-white wash. It touched the side of the truck and caught the man's face when he turned. I saw myself. Short brown hair.

Tired hazel eyes. Blunt nose. Square jaw. The same fresh split across the forehead. For a second I thought the cut was gone.

Then I realized I was looking at the other side of his head. The wound was there in the same place. The skin around it had the same dark smear of dried blood. He looked exactly like me. Not close.

Not similar. Exactly. I couldn't make my body move. The tire iron was still beside the curb, and I looked at it instead of him. The metal lay in the dirt where I'd left it.

A few feet away. I could've picked it up. I could've held it between us. That would've been the sensible thing. The man pushed away from the truck.

He didn't rush. That was the first thing I noticed. He didn't raise his hands or call out. He just straightened and started walking toward me. One step at a time.

His boots made a soft sound against the pavement. The engine behind him kept idling. I could see the driver's seat through the open window, and the steering wheel had the same worn place near the top where my left hand rested during long drives. I backed up. He kept coming.

The vending-machine light moved across his face as he walked. It caught his eyes and made them look dark. Not hazel. Not wet. There was no shine in them at all.

They looked like two pieces of dry glass set into my face. I tried to breathe and couldn't get enough air. Maybe this was a person wearing a mask. Maybe it was somebody who looked like me because the lights were bad and I was exhausted. I waited for the details to break apart.

The mouth to be wrong. The jaw to be different. Something. Nothing broke apart. The face stayed mine.

He smiled. It wasn't a big smile. Just the small one I used when I wanted to calm somebody down. The one I'd used with Evelyn when I was late and already knew she was angry. The one that meant I was going to explain, even if I didn't have a good explanation yet.

I stepped backward again and my heel caught the curb. I almost fell. My arms came out, and the tire iron went out of my mind. The man was closer now. Maybe twenty feet.

Maybe ten. The distance kept changing whenever I looked at him. He walked like he knew I would stop. I turned toward the restroom block. The door was still open.

Fluorescent light spilled across the floor inside. The clock above the sinks showed four seventeen. I could see the red numbers through the doorway, steady and bright. I ran. My boots struck the pavement hard enough to hurt my knees.

I passed the vending machines and heard the man behind me, although he still wasn't running. That made it worse. His steps stayed even and unhurried. I had the phone in one hand. The screen was lit, still showing four seventeen.

I almost dropped it when I glanced down. The time hadn't moved. The lot hadn't moved. Nothing had moved except me and the thing wearing my face. I reached the restroom curb.

My foot caught the raised edge. My body went forward before I could get my hands out. The phone flew from my grip and hit the pavement. The screen flashed once. The concrete came up fast.

My forehead hit the concrete curb, and the lot disappeared into blackness.

When I came around, I was gasping. I was back in the truck cab. My forehead hurt in the same place as before, and blood was running down the side of my face. It got into my eyebrow and made my eye water. I lifted a hand to the wound and felt the split skin under my fingers.

The cab clock read four seventeen. For a second I didn't move. The engine was off. The dashboard was dark except for the clock, and the phone sat in the cup holder with its screen black. The truck smelled like old coffee and cold vinyl.

Everything looked the way it had before I got out. Then something tapped on the passenger window. One knock. I turned my head. The man standing outside had my face.

He tapped the glass again with one finger. Not hard enough to crack it. Just enough to remind me he was there. He stood close to the door with his hands hanging loose at his sides, patient as somebody waiting for a store to open. I looked toward the driver's door.

It was shut, but the latch was still locked. I reached for it and pulled. Nothing happened. The man tapped again. I hit the lock button and pulled the handle at the same time.

The door opened a few inches. Cold air came through the gap. I shoved it with my shoulder and fell out onto the pavement. My boots hit hard. I caught myself on one hand and pushed up before I could look back.

The cut on my forehead opened wider. Blood ran into my eye. I ran. I didn't have a plan beyond getting away from the truck. The trees were ahead of me.

They were the only thing that wasn't pavement or glass or my own face standing behind a window. I went toward them with one hand pressed against my forehead. Branches caught my jacket. I pushed through them and kept going. The ground dropped into a ditch, then rose again.

Wet leaves slid under my boots. I nearly went down twice, but I stayed upright. Behind me I heard the truck door open. I looked back. The double was walking after me.

He hadn't run. He moved between the trees at the same steady pace he'd used in the lot. His face showed no effort. No anger either. He looked like he had all the time in the world.

I turned and climbed faster. The land rose behind Big Chestnut. I'd seen the hill from the lot, but the trees had hidden how steep it was. Roots crossed the dirt in long ridges. I grabbed one and pulled myself up, then another.

My breath came out rough and loud. One step at a time. I said it under my breath because I needed something to do with my mouth. The trees thinned near the top. I pushed through the last row of branches and stopped.

The rest area spread out below me. The truck. The restroom block. The fuel island. The entrance road and the looping ramp that had brought me back every time.

White fog surrounded all of it. It sat low across the ground in a solid ring. Not drifting. Not breaking apart. It covered the road on both sides of the rest area and reached into the trees until I couldn't see where the pavement ended.

The top of it stayed level, like somebody had poured milk into a ditch and left it there. Route thirty-three disappeared into the fog in both directions. I stood there trying to understand what I was looking at. The fog didn't move. No wind touched it.

The trees around me shifted slightly, but the white line below stayed still. Beyond it was the horizon. Or what should've been the horizon. A thin orange line rested where the dark sky met the ground. It was too straight to be a sunrise.

Too bright to be headlights. It ran across the distance on both sides of the lot, barely visible at first. I watched it for a while before I saw it move. The line was coming closer. It moved inward so slowly that my eyes kept losing track of it.

I looked at the trees, then back at the horizon, and the orange was closer to the fog than it had been. It wasn't spreading like light. It was advancing like something coming across a flat surface. I remembered seeing it on my first walk. It had been farther away then.

I hadn't understood what it meant. I thought it was the morning coming up beyond the trees. It wasn't morning. The fog was closing around the rest area. The orange line was coming from outside it.

There were two things moving toward me. One from the woods. One from beyond the road. I put my hand back over my forehead. The blood was warm.

That was when the rest of it settled into place. I had died at the restroom curb. My head had hit the concrete and everything had gone black. Then I was back in the cab at four seventeen with the same wound still open. Dying hadn't taken me out.

It had put me back. The thought made my stomach turn. I looked down the hill. The double had reached the lower part of the rise. He was still walking.

The branches moved around him and closed behind him, but he never lost sight of me for long. Every time I turned my head he was there between the trunks. I could've stayed on the hill. The ground was higher here, and I could see the fog. But there wasn't much cover.

The trees were thinner near the top, and the double would reach me if I waited. I started down. Going downhill was worse. My legs were shaking, and the dirt gave way under my boots. I used the trees to slow myself.

The double kept coming from below. He didn't call out. He didn't need to. I glanced back at the orange line. It was closer now.

The fog had swallowed more of the road. The white edge looked almost near enough to touch, although I knew it was still down beyond the lot. I couldn't tell how far the orange was behind it. It didn't matter. The whole place was being squeezed between them.

I reached the bottom of the rise and moved through a stand of young trees. The pavement showed between the trunks ahead. My truck was still somewhere behind me. The restroom lights made a pale glow through the branches. I took one more step.

An arm locked around my chest from behind. I tried to twist free, but the woman pulled me back against her. She was smaller than me and wiry, but she had the leverage. Her other hand came up under my jaw. Something cold touched my throat.

A box cutter. I stopped breathing. She held it tight against the skin beneath my chin. I could feel the edge when I swallowed. Her grip didn't shake.

The woman smelled like dirt, oil, and wet cloth. Her breath was close to my ear.

"Which one are you?" she said.

The woman turned my face toward the vending-machine light. The box cutter stayed under my jaw while she looked into my eyes. The light was weak and blue-white. It made everything look wrong, but she watched my eyes closely. She moved my head a little farther to the side, then back again.

"What are you looking for?"

I asked. "Reflection."

She studied me for another second. Then she lowered the blade and let go of my chest. I stepped away from her and grabbed the tire iron from where it hung near my leg. My hand closed around the metal before I even knew I was reaching for it. She didn't try to stop me.

She kept the box cutter open in one hand and watched the trees behind me. "You're not one of them," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Your eyes reflected the light."

I wiped the blood away from my eyebrow. My fingers came back red. The cut on my forehead was still open, and the pain had settled into a steady pulse that matched my heartbeat.

"Who are you?"

"Victoria."

She glanced toward the lot. The double was somewhere down among the trees, although I couldn't see him anymore. The fog had moved closer to the edge of the pavement. It sat beyond the fuel island in a white wall, hiding the road and the lower part of the trees.

"Victoria what?"

"Just Victoria."

That seemed fair. I hadn't given her anything either. She folded the box cutter but kept it in her hand. There was a small scar across one of her knuckles. Her clothes were stained with fuel and dirt.

Cargo pants. Steel-toed boots. A work shirt with dark marks around the pockets. She looked like she'd been outside for a long time.

"I drive a tanker," she said.

"Started my loop at a weigh station three miles north on Route thirty-three. Four forty-one. That was when it began."

"How long ago?"

She looked at the clock glowing through the restroom window. "Depends how you count it."

"The clock hasn't moved."

"I know."

The answer came out flat. She'd said it before. Maybe to herself. Maybe to people who hadn't lasted long enough to hear the rest.

"How many times have you been through this?"

She rubbed the edge of the box cutter with her thumb. "Hundreds."

"Hundreds?"

"I stopped counting."

The double had followed me out of the truck and into the trees. He was still down there somewhere. I could hear branches moving on the slope below, but there were too many other sounds to tell where he was. My own breathing. The vending machines buzzing.

The soft hiss of fog moving across the pavement. Victoria looked at the tire iron in my hand.

"Keep it up where I can see it."

"I wasn't planning on putting it down."

"Good."

She pointed toward the lot with the box cutter. The blade caught the vending-machine light.

"I learned most of the rules by watching people die."

I didn't say anything. "The drivers come back the same way we do. Truck cab. Four seventeen. Same wound if they had one. Then the copies start working on them."

"The double looks like me."

"They wear your face and your clothes. Sometimes they get the voice right too."

"Sometimes?"

"Usually."

She said it like that was supposed to make me feel better. It didn't.

"They don't attack right away," she continued.

"Not if they can help it. They wait until somebody stops moving. Or until they think the person trusts them enough to turn their back."

I looked down the hill. A dark shape moved between the trunks and disappeared.

"Mine didn't say anything."

"Not yet."

Victoria shifted her weight. She kept facing the trees, listening.

"I watched one take another driver's form after the driver died. The man was gone, and there was another him standing beside the truck a minute later. Same jacket. Same voice. Same stories about his wife and his route and where he was supposed to be going."

"Was it convincing?"

"It would've convinced me if I hadn't watched the change."

The box cutter clicked once in her hand. Open. Closed. Open again.

"They can repeat memories," she said.

"Not just the big things. Little things too. Stuff nobody else would know. That's how they get close."

I thought about the smile on the double's face. The one I used when Evelyn was angry with me and I needed her to wait long enough for an explanation.

"What happens if they catch you?"

"You die."

"Then what?"

"Then they get better."

She pointed again, this time toward the road. The fog had reached the far side of the fuel island. It covered the pavement in a solid line and pressed against the trees on both sides.

"It wasn't that close last time," she said.

"The fog's advanced since my previous cycle."

"Previous cycle?"

"Every time I die I wake up somewhere else. The first few times I thought I was getting out. I wasn't. It resets and starts over."

The orange line showed faintly beyond the fog. It was closer than before. I could see it through the white in thin pieces, like fire behind a curtain.

"What's that?"

"Doesn't have a name."

"Can it hurt us?"

"It'll reach us soon enough."

That wasn't an answer, but I understood it. Victoria looked toward the fuel island. A tanker sat there under the lights. The cab was dark, but the long silver tank caught the orange reflection in a dull strip along its side.

"That tanker still has diesel," she said.

"It's the only large fuel source left."

"You want to start it?"

"I want to open the supply and burn a path through the fog."

I looked at her. "You have a better plan?"

"No."

"Then listen. The copies avoid running engines."

"Why?"

"I don't know. They don't like the noise. Maybe it confuses them. Maybe it keeps them from hearing us. Doesn't matter. We use the tanker, get the diesel out, and make the fog give us room."

"You've done this before."

"I've tried."

"How many times?"

"Enough."

She looked at the tanker again. One of the side panels was open. A dark hose hung beneath it, trailing toward the concrete. I couldn't see the fuel island clearly through the fog, but I could see the shape of the truck.

"What happened?"

"The copies got there first one time. Another time the fog closed before I had enough fuel burning. The last time I made it to the tanker and the driver was waiting inside."

"His copy?"

"Probably."

She didn't say what happened after that. She didn't have to. The branches moved below us. The double was climbing. I tightened my grip on the tire iron.

"Can you get us out?"

I asked. "No."

She looked at me then. "I can give us a chance."

That was more than I'd had since waking up. The rest area had given me the same road, the same clock, and a copy that knew how to wear my face. Victoria was the first living person I'd found. She had a weapon, a plan, and no reason to waste time explaining things unless she believed they mattered.

I believed her. "All right," I said.

"We do it."

She nodded once. "You go first."

"I'm not letting you walk behind me."

Her eyes narrowed. "You think I'm the copy?"

"I think you have a box cutter."

"That's not an answer."

"You said they use trust to get close."

The words came out rougher than I meant them to. I didn't trust her. I also didn't have anybody else to trust. Both things could be true. Victoria looked at the tire iron.

"Keep it between us, then."

I moved to the side so I could watch her and the trees at the same time. She stepped out first. I stayed close enough that the metal bar reached across the space between us, but not close enough for her to get behind me. The fog waited beyond the fuel island. The orange line burned behind it.

Victoria started across the lot with the box cutter in one hand, and I followed with the tire iron between us and the fuel island ahead.

We crossed the lot between the parked semis. Victoria kept low as she moved, and I stayed close behind her with the tire iron held across my body. The trucks made narrow walls around us. Their trailers blocked the fog and most of the fuel island, although the white edge was still visible through the gaps.

Every few steps she stopped. I stopped too. The lot went quiet around us. No branches moving. No boots on pavement.

Nothing but the soft hiss of the fog and the ticking sound from somewhere under one of the trucks. Victoria looked back at me.

"Listen."

I listened. There was no sign of the double. That didn't mean he was gone. It only meant he wasn't making noise. She pointed past the next trailer.

"We go around the front."

The trailer beside us had been left crooked across two spaces. Its rear doors were open, and one of the tires had sunk into the soft ground near the curb. A dark hose lay under the frame. I kept the tire iron up while Victoria moved toward the cab. She stopped again at the corner.

I could see part of the fuel island beyond her. The tanker sat under the lights with one of its side panels open. The silver tank was dull beneath the blue-white glow, and the fog had reached the concrete around it. The orange light behind the fog showed through in thin strips. Victoria leaned around the trailer and looked toward the tanker.

Then she went on. I waited for her to signal me. Nothing happened. The silence stretched out until I could hear my own breathing inside my jacket.

"Victoria?"

I called. Her head appeared around the front of the trailer.

"Path's clear," she said.

Her voice sounded normal. Low and tight. The same voice I'd heard in the trees. I moved around the trailer. Victoria stood beside the tanker with her back to me.

The open panel was in front of her, and a black fuel hose hung below it. She had the box cutter in her right hand. Her shoulders were still. Too still, maybe, but I didn't know if that was fear or concentration. I kept the tire iron between us.

"Where's the hose go?"

I asked. She didn't answer. I took another step. The tanker filled most of my view. The metal reflected the lights in broken yellow patches, and the smell of diesel was already strong around the open port.

"Victoria."

She turned. Her face moved before the rest of her did. The skin around her eyes pulled tight. Her mouth stretched sideways, then snapped back. Her cheeks seemed to slide underneath the surface, like something was moving behind them and looking for the right shape.

I stopped. Victoria's face was gone. Maxwell's face looked at me. The dark eyes. The dry skin.

The split in the forehead. The same expressionless mouth he'd worn when he came after me through the trees. Then that face changed too. The jaw narrowed. The hair shifted across the forehead.

The features became those of a man I'd never seen before. He had a wide nose and a crooked mouth, but the details wouldn't stay long enough for me to hold on to them. The face rippled again. A woman looked back at me. She had auburn hair and pale green eyes.

The angular cheeks and sharp nose were Victoria's, but the eyes were wrong. They looked dark and empty, with no reflection from the lights. Then Victoria was standing there again. The box cutter clicked open. I backed away.

My heel struck the trailer tire. "Which one are you?" she said.

It was Victoria's voice. Almost. The pause came in the wrong place. I swung the tire iron. She moved before I finished the motion.

The bar struck the tanker with a loud metal crack. My hands went numb, and the copy caught the front of my jacket. I tried to pull away. The collar tightened against my throat. She dragged me forward and slammed my head into the side of the tanker.

My forehead struck the metal near the open port. Pain flashed through my skull, and my knees bent. I got one hand against the tank and pushed. The copy twisted my jacket and forced my head down. My face went into the open fuel port.

Cold diesel fumes filled my nose and mouth. I tried to breathe and got a lungful of the sharp oily vapor instead. It burned all the way down. I coughed, but there wasn't enough room to lift my head. The metal rim pressed into my forehead around the cut.

I clawed at the tanker. My fingers scraped over the metal and slipped. The surface was cold and slick with fuel. I grabbed the edge of the open panel and pulled myself sideways, but the copy had both hands locked into my jacket. I struck backward with my elbow.

It hit something solid. The grip tightened. I struck again. My elbow landed higher this time, near the ribs. The copy didn't make a sound.

It only drove my head farther into the opening. The fumes got worse. I tried to turn my face. The port was narrow, but I got my cheek against the rim and pulled in a thin breath of clean air. It wasn't enough.

Diesel ran across my lips. I gagged and kicked at the pavement. My boot struck her shin. Nothing changed. The arms holding me were stronger than they looked.

They didn't shake. They didn't slip. Victoria had been wiry and hard, but this wasn't just strength. It was the way the copy held me, like it already knew where I was going to move. I thought about Maxwell standing under the fuel-island lights.

I thought about his face becoming somebody else's. The thing behind me wasn't one fixed double. It didn't belong to one person. It could wear Maxwell. It could wear me.

It could wear Victoria. Any victim it got close enough to take. Victoria had led me across the lot because she knew where the tanker was. Or the copy had. I tried to shout, but diesel filled my throat.

My hands kept moving even after I stopped knowing what they were reaching for. I found the edge of the tank again and hooked my fingers around it. The copy pulled my jacket tight. My forehead pressed against the metal. The fumes burned through my nose and down into my chest.

I kicked once more and hit nothing. The lights above the fuel island blurred. The orange glow behind the fog disappeared. I kept pulling at the tanker until my fingers went weak, and the copy held my head down in the open fuel port until I lost consciousness.

I woke with diesel still burning in my throat. My forehead was bleeding again. The cab clock read four seventeen, and the phone sat dark in the cup holder. I was on the driver's side this time. Something stood outside the passenger window.

"Cody."

I turned toward the voice. Victoria was standing beside the truck. Her face looked tired and dirty under the weak lot lights. The box cutter hung closed in one hand. She had both arms at her sides.

"Cody, open the door."

I didn't move. The last time I'd seen her face, it had rippled and changed while she held my head against the tanker. The last thing I'd felt was the fuel port pressing into my forehead. Victoria lifted her empty hand and put it against the glass.

"It's me."

That was exactly what the copy would say. I reached for the tire iron. It wasn't beside the seat. I looked down and found it on the floor near the pedals. I picked it up and held it across my lap.

Victoria saw the movement. "You don't have to open it. Just listen."

I kept my eyes on her. "How'd you find the tanker?"

"Past the parked semis. Around the front of the crooked trailer."

"What was hanging under the trailer?"

"A black fuel hose."

She had the details right. That didn't mean much anymore.

"What did you tell me when we got to the trees?"

She looked toward the fog. "Which one are you?"

"Before that."

"Listen."

The word came out in the same low voice she'd used before. Tight and rasped, with that rural edge I hadn't noticed until I heard it copied. I kept the tire iron pointed at the window.

"You said you drove a tanker."

"I started my loop at a weigh station three miles north on Route thirty-three. Four forty-one. That's when it began."

She glanced at the clock through the windshield. "The clock hasn't moved," she said.

Those were the things she'd told me before. The things I knew because she'd told me. The copy had them too now.

"What was the plan?"

I asked. "Use the diesel from the tanker. Open the supply and burn a path through the fog. The copies avoid running engines, so we'd use the noise to keep them back."

She hadn't tried the door. She hadn't raised the box cutter. She was just standing there while the fog crept across the pavement behind her.

"How do I know you're not the thing that killed me?"

"You don't."

She said it without hesitation. That sounded more like Victoria than anything else had.

"Copies can take memories," she continued.

"Not just what somebody sees. They take enough to sound right. Maybe more than enough. You can ask me questions all morning and still not know."

"Then why are you asking me to come out?"

"Because the fog's closer."

I looked past her. The white edge had moved from the fuel island to the first row of parked trucks. It covered the pavement in a solid sheet and reached around the tires. The orange light behind it was stronger now. It showed through in long thin bands.

Victoria tapped the glass with one finger. "There are more rules," she said.

I didn't answer. "The first one is that dying resets you. You already know that."

I did. I could feel the tanker against my forehead. I could still taste the fuel.

"The second one is different. If a copy gets both arms around you and holds on through the reset, you don't come back."

I stared at her. She lowered her hand from the window.

"It doesn't matter how you die. Doesn't matter if it breaks your neck or crushes your chest. If it has you wrapped up when it happens, that's permanent."

"How do you know?"

"I watched it."

The fog hissed against the pavement. Somewhere behind the truck, metal clicked as the cab cooled.

"There was a driver in one of the early cycles," Victoria said.

"He was trying to get to the road. A copy caught him near the restroom block. It got both arms around him and held him there. He died. Then the cycle reset."

She looked at the truck cab instead of me. "He didn't come back."

"Maybe he woke somewhere else."

"Maybe."

"Maybe the reset didn't happen for him."

"It did. I was there."

Her fingers tightened around the box cutter. She didn't open it.

"I watched the same place after I woke up again. His truck was there. The other trucks were there. But he wasn't. No version of him. No copy wearing him. Nothing."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know."

She looked through the windshield at me. "I don't know if the body is gone. I don't know if the memory is gone. I don't know if there's anything left that could come back. I only know he stopped appearing."

I thought about the double standing between the trees. The way it had followed me without rushing. The way the copy at the tanker had held my jacket and pushed my head down while I kicked at the pavement. It hadn't wrapped both arms around me. It had only used its hands.

That had been luck. Nothing more. Victoria moved closer to the passenger door. I kept the tire iron up.

"Back up," I said.

She stopped. "Don't come any closer."

"I'm not trying to get in."

"Then stay there."

"I am."

That was the part I kept coming back to. She could've opened the passenger door if she wanted to. She could've reached for the handle. The cab wasn't locked from her side. She hadn't done it.

She'd stayed outside while we talked. The fog had moved closer too. It covered the front of the nearest truck now, turning the headlights and running lights into dull white spots. The fuel island was still visible, but barely. The tanker sat somewhere beyond it.

If we waited another cycle, the fog would be farther in. Maybe it would reach the cab before I woke again. Maybe the orange light would reach us first. I set the tire iron against the seat but kept one hand on it.

"If you get close," I said, "I swing."

"I know."

"If you grab me, I fight."

"I know that too."

The truck cab felt smaller than it had a minute earlier. My throat still burned from the diesel. Blood ran down beside my nose and dripped onto my jacket. I wiped it away with my sleeve. Victoria watched me through the glass.

"We don't have time to prove anything," she said.

"I know."

"So pick a side."

I looked at the fog again. It was sliding between the trucks in long white fingers. The lights above the lot made the top of it glow, but the inside stayed blank. The tanker was behind that wall. The only fuel source left, Victoria had said.

The only plan we had. Hiding in the cab would keep me alive for a little while. It wouldn't get me out. It might not even keep me alive if the fog reached the truck. I had already died once trying to trust her.

The other choice was trusting her again. I thought about Evelyn. I told her I'd be home after the delivery. I didn't know if that promise meant anything here, but it was still the reason I was moving.

"One step at a time," I said.

Victoria heard me through the glass. Her expression didn't change.

"Just get to the tanker," she said.

I picked up the tire iron and held it in my right hand. Then I reached for the lock. The mechanism clicked. I pushed the driver's door open and stepped out beside Victoria, choosing to continue toward the fuel island.

I kept the tire iron in one hand and followed Victoria toward the wooded rise. The fog had reached the first row of trucks by then, sliding around the tires and filling the spaces between them. It moved quietly, but the pavement underneath made a soft wet sound whenever it touched something. Victoria glanced back at me.

"Stay close."

"I am."

The maintenance shed stood beside the trees. It was a small wooden building with a metal roof and a door that hadn't been locked. Victoria pushed it open with her shoulder. The inside smelled like gasoline, old leaves, and damp wood. There was a groundskeeper's cart parked against the back wall.

Two gas-powered leaf blowers rested on it, along with a chainsaw. The chainsaw was already running. I stopped just inside the door. The engine rattled on the cart, loud enough to make the boards under my boots vibrate. I could hear the fog outside, but not much else.

Victoria shut the door behind us. "Why's that running?"

I asked. "It was running when I found it."

"How long ago?"

"Doesn't matter."

She picked up one of the blowers and pulled the starter cord. The engine coughed, then caught. She started the second one and handed it to me. The handle shook against my palm.

"Keep it pointed toward the ground," she said.

"Don't let the copies get close."

"What does that do?"

"Makes it harder for them to hear us coming."

The chainsaw kept running between us. The chain moved around the bar in a gray blur. Victoria picked it up with both hands and checked the fuel cap, even though she already knew it was full.

"Stay behind me," she said.

I looked at the leaf blower. "You said keep it pointed at the ground."

"I know what I said."

She opened the door. The noise from the engines came out with us and spread across the rise. It wasn't loud enough to cover everything. It just filled the air with a rough mechanical sound that made it harder to tell where anything else was. That was probably the point.

We went down through the trees. Victoria carried the chainsaw in front of her. I kept the blower aimed at the ground and followed close behind. Leaves and dirt kicked away from the nozzle. The stream pushed at my boots and sent small pieces of bark across the path.

The fog had reached the outer parking spaces. White vapor curled around the parked trucks and covered the lower half of the trailers. The orange light beyond it showed through in thin bands. It looked closer than before. I didn't look at it for long.

The tanker was ahead. We came out of the trees between two semis. The lot lights were still burning, but they had a weak yellow edge now. The fog swallowed most of the light before it reached us. Victoria raised the chainsaw.

"Listen," she said.

I kept the blower running. I listened anyway. Nothing came from the fog at first. Then two shapes stepped out between the trucks. One wore Maxwell's face.

The dark eyes caught the light without reflecting it. The split in the forehead was still there. The other had the face of a woman I'd never seen before. Auburn hair. Angular cheeks.

Pale eyes that looked almost green until the fog passed over them and turned them black. I didn't know either of them. That didn't make the second one less dangerous. Maxwell moved first. Victoria swung the chainsaw across the space between us.

The chain tore through the air with a hard metallic whine. Maxwell stopped short. The woman moved to the side, trying to get around the sound. I turned the blower toward her. The air caught at her clothes and blew fog back from her legs.

She stepped away from it. "Keep moving," Victoria said.

We moved toward the fuel island. The chainsaw stayed between us and Maxwell. Victoria held it low, then brought it up whenever he tried to close the distance. He never rushed. He just kept testing the space, looking for a way through.

The other copy disappeared behind a parked semi. I saw it happen and pointed the blower toward the gap. The fog boiled around the tires. Nothing came out.

"Victoria," I said.

"I see him."

She was looking at Maxwell. The woman came around behind her. I tried to shout, but the leaf blower drowned me out. I saw the copy's arms go around Victoria's middle. It pulled her backward against its chest before she could turn.

Victoria's chainsaw dropped toward the pavement. She caught it with one hand and kept it running. Maxwell stood in front of her, blocking the path. I moved toward them with the blower raised. Maxwell stepped into my way.

The double wearing his face looked exactly like me when I was trying to calm somebody down. That small patient expression. The one that said there was still time to explain. He reached for my shoulder. I swung the blower into his chest.

The machine struck him hard enough to push him back a step. He didn't fall. His hands closed around the end of the blower, and the engine bucked between us. I pulled away. He held on.

Victoria screamed over the engines. "Keep moving. Don't turn back. If you stop, it takes you too."

The woman had both arms around her now. She held Victoria against her chest with one arm across the ribs and the other high beneath the shoulders. Victoria kicked backward and tried to turn the chainsaw, but there wasn't enough room to use it. I pulled the blower free and shoved it into Maxwell again.

He let go this time. I ran. The tanker was close. The fog reached around its tires and covered the bottom of the silver tank. The open panel was still there.

I could see the fuel line beneath it. Behind me the chainsaw screamed. Victoria shouted something I couldn't make out. The leaf blower in my hand was still running, the air hammering against my leg as I ran. I reached the tanker and dropped the blower.

It landed on the concrete without stopping. I grabbed the open panel and pulled. The metal door shook under my hand. It didn't open any farther. I looked for the latch.

There was a handle near the lower edge and a black cap beside it. Diesel fumes came up around the opening. I grabbed the handle and pulled harder. The sound of the chainsaw changed behind me. I turned my head.

The woman was still holding Victoria. Victoria's face was turned toward me, her mouth open as she fought against the arms around her. Maxwell stood between us with the chainsaw at his feet. He had one hand on the bar and was watching me. The fog moved across the pavement.

It reached the tanker. I pulled at the fuel line again. The cap spun under my fingers, but it wouldn't come loose. My hands were slick. I wiped them against my jacket and tried again.

The orange light brightened behind the fog. It filled the white wall with a dull red glow. The tanker shook beneath my hands.

"Cody!"

Victoria yelled. I looked back. The copy had lifted her off the ground. Her boots kicked once, then struck the pavement. The woman's arms were locked around her chest.

Victoria's chainsaw lay beside them, still running. I grabbed the fuel handle with both hands. The lot started to disappear. It didn't fade like a light going out. The trucks lost their edges first.

The fuel island stretched away from me, then pulled back. The fog turned black around the tires. The orange glow vanished behind it. I heard Victoria scream again. I pulled the handle.

The tanker, the engines, the fog, and the two copies went black together. Rachel held Victoria against its chest beside the tanker, and the reset took me.

I woke with diesel burning in my throat and my forehead pressed against the steering wheel. The cab clock read four seventeen. The phone sat dark in the cup holder. For a few seconds I didn't move because I was waiting to feel the tanker under my hands. It wasn't there.

The engine was off. The chainsaw was gone. There was no sound from the fuel island except the low electrical buzz from the lights and the soft hiss of fog moving across the pavement. I lifted my head and looked through the windshield. Victoria wasn't standing outside.

The passenger side was empty. The lot beyond it was covered in white at the edges. Fog had reached the asphalt and was sliding between the parked trucks, hiding their tires and the bottom sections of their trailers. The orange light behind it showed through in long dull strips. I opened the driver's door and climbed down with the tire iron in my hand.

My knees felt weak, and my throat hurt every time I breathed. The cut on my forehead was still open. Blood had dried along my eyebrow, and fresh blood ran down beside my nose when I touched it. I looked toward the trees. Nothing moved there.

The maintenance shed stood beside the rise with its door hanging open. I walked that way first, keeping the tire iron up even though I knew it wouldn't do much if one of the copies came out of the fog. The ground was wet under my boots. Leaves stuck to the soles and came loose with every step.

The shed was empty. The cart was still against the back wall. The two leaf blowers were gone. The chainsaw was gone too. Only a dark patch of oil and a few fresh wood chips showed where it had been sitting.

I stared at those for a while. Victoria had been holding it when the copy took her. I stepped back outside and looked up the wooded rise. The trees were thin near the top. Beyond them I could see the place where she'd been pulled off the ground.

There was no sign of her. No dropped box cutter. No torn piece of clothing. No footprints that I could separate from mine and the copies'. I climbed partway up the hill anyway.

The branches caught at my jacket. My breath came out rough. I kept looking between the trunks, expecting to see her crouched behind one of them or standing with the box cutter open in her hand. I expected another version of her too. The woman with the auburn hair.

The copy wearing Victoria's face. Maxwell's face. Mine. There was nobody. The hill ended at the same view as before.

Big Chestnut lay below me with the restroom block and the fuel island surrounded by white fog. The tanker was still there, but only the upper half showed above the fog. The silver tank caught the lot lights in broken patches. The open side panel was too far down to see clearly. I stayed on the hill until my legs started to shake.

Victoria had said the copies could take enough memories to sound right. She'd said dying reset you. She'd said there was another rule, although she hadn't told me about it until I was back in the cab. If a copy got both arms around you and held on through the reset, you didn't come back.

I looked down toward the fuel island. The woman had both arms around Victoria's chest. She'd lifted her off the ground. Victoria's boots had struck the pavement once. Then the whole place had gone black.

There wasn't going to be another Victoria walking out of the trees. I went back down. The restroom block was still lit. The vending machines buzzed beside it, showing the same rows of chips and bottles behind their glass. The clock above the sinks glowed red through the front window.

Four seventeen. I walked around the side of the building and checked the pavement near the curb. My tire-iron mark was still there. The crooked scrape ran through the dirt beside the entrance. Nothing else had changed.

I checked behind the building. The space back there was narrow and wet, with a drain running along the foundation. A few pieces of trash had collected against the wall. A paper cup. A torn wrapper.

A leaf stuck to the concrete. No Victoria. I went to the fuel island next. The fog reached almost to the pumps. It curled around the base of the tanker and hid the hoses beneath it.

I moved along the edge of the pavement, looking for the chainsaw. It should've been beside the copies where Victoria dropped it. The chain had still been running when I saw her last. There was nothing there now. I checked behind the fuel pump.

Then I walked around the tanker and looked beneath it. Diesel had spread across the concrete in a dark shining puddle. The smell was strong enough to make my stomach turn, but the fuel line was closed. The cap was back in place. The side panel hung open.

The copy had reset too. Maxwell was gone. The woman was gone. Every version of Victoria was gone. There wasn't even a body left behind to prove what had happened.

I stood beside the tanker and watched the fog move closer. The on-ramp was covered. The trees were covered. The road beyond the rest area was gone behind the white wall. I could've taken the ramp again, but I already knew where it ended.

Big Chestnut would be waiting on the other side. I could've gone into the woods and followed the guardrail until I came back to the restroom block. I could've died and woken in the cab again. None of those were routes anymore. They were just different ways of staying here.

I lowered the tire iron. My hand hurt from gripping it. The fog had reached the last row of trucks, and the white edge was spreading across the asphalt in front of me. The orange light behind it was brighter now, but it still didn't look like daylight. It looked like something outside the loop pressing against it.

I thought about going back to the truck. There was no reason to. The cab had never protected me. It had only been where I woke up after dying. I walked into the restroom block instead.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Water dripped from one of the sinks, although I hadn't turned any of them on. My reflection looked back at me from the mirror with blood on its forehead and tired eyes that didn't seem to belong to anybody who was going home. I left the tire iron beside the wall and stepped beneath the clock.

The fog rolled across the lot until it covered the last visible stretch of asphalt outside.

The fog rolled across the lot until it covered the last visible stretch of asphalt outside, and then the white came through the walls. It filled my mouth first. Cold and wet. I tried to breathe and got something hard between my teeth instead. A strap pressed across my chest.

Another one held my stomach down. My arms were pinned along the sides of a chair that leaned back farther than it looked like it should. I jerked against the straps. Something tugged at both sides of my head. Wires ran from the skin near my temples to a console beside the chair.

Small pads were stuck under them, cold against the sweat on my face. The room smelled like disinfectant and plastic. No diesel. No wet leaves. No fog.

A mouthguard filled my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but the strap across my jaw held it in place. A woman stood beside the console with a tablet clipped to her forearm. She wore a white coat over dark gray clothes. Her hair was cut straight at her chin, and she looked at the screen instead of me.

"Easy," she said.

"Your breathing is elevated."

I pulled harder against the straps. She reached down and removed the mouthguard. My jaw dropped open, and I coughed until my throat hurt. The taste of rubber stayed on my tongue.

"Where is she?"

I said. The woman checked the tablet.

"Your integration scores have finally reached an acceptable level."

I tried to sit up. The chair stopped me. The wires pulled at my temples, and a sharp pain went through the side of my head.

"Where's Victoria?"

The woman glanced toward the next chair. Victoria sat there with her head tilted slightly to one side. Wires ran from both temples to another console. Her arms were strapped down. Her eyes were closed, and her chest moved under the thin gray shirt she wore.

She was breathing, but nothing else about her moved. I looked back at the woman.

"Get her out."

"That isn't currently possible."

"Get her out."

The woman tapped the tablet with one finger. "I'm Mildred."

I didn't care who she was. I pulled against the strap across my chest again. It cut into my jacket and held me in place.

"She was there," I said.

"The copy had its arms around her. It held on when everything went black."

"Yes."

"You knew this was happening?"

"I designed the parameters."

That stopped me for a second. Not because I understood it. Because she said it like she was talking about a thermostat. Mildred walked to Victoria's chair and checked the wires at her temples. Victoria didn't react.

Her face looked pale under the clean white lights. There was no dirt on her clothes. No blood. No box cutter in her hand.

"What did it do to her?"

"The double maintained physical contact through the reset."

"I know what it did."

"Then you understand the result."

"I don't."

Mildred looked at me. Her eyes were gray and flat.

"Normally a death event returns the patient to the beginning of the cycle. The body resets. The memory of the event remains available for integration."

"Normally."

"That is the expected outcome."

"And if it holds on?"

"The capture becomes permanent."

The room seemed to get colder. I looked at Victoria again. Her head stayed turned toward the wall. One strand of auburn hair rested against her cheek.

"She died?"

"Her body did. The program retained the identity it had been using and wiped the patient’s active mind during the reset."

I stared at Mildred. "You said she was breathing."

"Her body is alive."

"That isn't the same thing."

"No. It isn't."

She said it without hesitation. That was almost worse than if she'd tried to soften it. I pulled at the straps until my shoulders hurt.

"You let it happen."

"The event was part of the simulation."

"You let it happen."

Mildred looked down at her tablet. "The outcome was consistent with the rule set."

"What rule set?"

"The environment is a state-run rehabilitation simulation. Big Chestnut is one of several constructed treatment spaces. It exposes patients to repeated loss events and measures their responses."

I laughed once. It came out dry and rough.

"Treatment?"

"Rehabilitation."

"You trapped us in that place."

"The program creates a closed loop. The road returns patients to the rest area. The fog marks the outer boundary. The orange fire-line is a programmed limit beyond the accessible environment."

I thought about the white wall moving across the pavement. The orange light pressing toward it from outside. It hadn't been morning. It hadn't been a road flare or some kind of fire. It had been a line in a machine.

The machine had made the road loop. It had made the rest area empty. It had made the copies.

"The double was me," I said.

"One of them was."

"It looked exactly like me."

"It was built from your self-referential guilt structures."

I looked at her. Mildred seemed to notice that I wasn't following.

"Your self-hatred over losing Evelyn was given a physical identity. The double represents that response."

My chest tightened against the strap. "I didn't lose her."

"Your records indicate otherwise."

"I didn't lose her."

Mildred tapped the screen again. "The program uses people and identities connected to the patient's failures. That makes the encounters more difficult to reject."

"The copies changed faces."

"Yes."

"They wore Victoria."

"They can use identities associated with fear, guilt, and perceived failure."

I looked at the wires running from my temples. The pads were fixed to my skin with clear tape. A small green light blinked on the console beside me.

"Who else did they use?"

Mildred didn't answer right away. She adjusted something on the tablet.

"You know," I said.

"The program selects from available memory structures."

"Who else?"

"That information isn't relevant to your current integration score."

I pulled against the straps again. "You put Evelyn in there."

"Evelyn is an emotional trigger."

"She's my daughter."

"I understand the relationship."

"No, you don't."

Mildred looked at Victoria. "The simulation uses identities of people the patient believes he failed. That is why the copies are effective. They don't need to invent everything. They access what is already present."

I thought about the smile on the double's face. The one I'd used with Evelyn when I was late. The one that said I could still explain it. That I could still fix it. The copy had known the exact shape of it.

Mildred came back to my chair and checked the wire on my left temple. Her fingers were cold. I flinched away, but the strap held my head against the chair.

"Don't touch me."

"The contact points need to remain stable."

"Take them off."

"Not yet."

"Take them off."

"Your scores have improved, but the cycle isn't complete."

I looked past her at Victoria. The wires at her temples disappeared into the console behind the chair. Her eyes stayed closed. She didn't move when Mildred touched the side of her neck and checked for a pulse.

"What happens to her now?"

"She remains under observation."

"Does she wake up?"

Mildred's face didn't change. "There is no active mind to wake."

The words sat in the room between us. I had been afraid of dying in that place. Afraid the copies would catch me and hold me until I didn't come back. Victoria had known the rule because she'd watched it happen. She'd tried to tell me.

I hadn't understood what permanent meant until now. Mildred moved to the console and entered something on the screen. The wires at my temples tightened slightly. I felt the pressure behind my eyes. I turned my head as far as the restraints allowed.

The wires ran from my temples into the machine. Victoria sat in the next chair, alive but unresponsive.

Mildred pressed a button on the console. Something cold moved through the wires at my temples and spread behind my eyes.

"Evelyn needs me," I said.

My voice sounded rough from the mouthguard and the diesel fumes that weren't really there. "I have to get home."

Mildred watched the numbers change on her tablet. "Your resistance is elevated."

"I have to fix what I did."

"That response is part of the treatment."

"She needed me."

I pulled against the straps again. The chair creaked under me, but nothing gave.

"I told her I'd be home after the delivery. I have to get back."

Mildred looked at the screen. She didn't look at me.

"Medication increased," she said.

"Resistance weakening."

The room stayed cold. Air came through a vent above me and moved across my face. It smelled clean enough to make the rest area seem real by comparison. I could still taste fuel in my mouth. I could still feel the tanker against my forehead.

Somewhere inside my head Victoria was screaming, and I was standing there pulling at the fuel line while the copy held her.

"I can't leave her there," I said.

Mildred adjusted the dosage on the console. The pressure behind my eyes grew stronger. My arms felt heavy against the restraints. I tried to lift my head, but the wires pulled tight and the room tilted slightly to one side.

"Victoria is not the current subject," Mildred said.

"She was there."

"Yes."

"You knew what would happen."

"I knew the possible outcomes."

"Then you let it happen."

Mildred made another note on the tablet. Her face stayed the same. Maybe she didn't hear the difference between anger and breathing. Maybe to her there wasn't one. I looked at Victoria's chair.

She was still sitting upright with her eyes closed. The wires ran from her temples to the console, and her hands rested flat against the straps. She looked asleep. That was the worst part. If she'd looked dead, I would've had something I understood.

"Victoria," I said.

She didn't move. Mildred stepped between us and checked the lead on my right temple. Her fingers were careful. Not gentle. There was a difference.

"Don't touch that."

"The connection is unstable."

"Take it off."

"Your treatment cannot continue without it."

"I said take it off."

My voice got louder, but it didn't carry far. The room took it and gave back a flat little echo. Mildred didn't step away. She disconnected the lead from the side of my head, wiped the pad with a square of white cloth, and pressed it back into place. The machine made a short tone.

She looked at the tablet. "The signal is acceptable."

"Where's Evelyn?"

Mildred didn't answer right away. She moved to the other side of the chair and disconnected two more leads. The skin beneath them felt cold when the air reached it. She checked the wires, then attached them again in a different order.

"Where's Evelyn?"

I said. "Her identity remains available within the simulation."

"She needs me."

"Your attachment to that identity is causing repeated resistance."

"She's my daughter."

"I understand the relationship."

"No, you don't."

The medication moved through me another time. There wasn't any sharp pain. That would've been easier. It was more like falling asleep in the middle of a sentence. My thoughts started losing their edges.

Evelyn's face was clear for a second. Her gray-blue eyes. Her hair pulled back loosely. The way she kept her voice quiet when she was close to ending a conversation. Did you remember, or did you just remember to call?

I tried to hold on to the words, but they slid away from me. "I told her I'd be home," I said.

Mildred watched the screen. "Resistance continues to weaken."

I pulled at the straps because that was what I was supposed to do. My body remembered the effort even after the reason started to disappear. The leather pressed into my chest. My shoulders hurt. My forehead throbbed beneath the blood and adhesive.

"Callie needs me," I said, although the name wasn't right.

It belonged to another part of the treatment. Another thing the machine had put in front of me. I knew that, but knowing it didn't make the words stop. Mildred reached down and increased the medication again. The room softened around the edges.

The lights stretched into pale lines. Victoria's chair became a darker shape beside me. The wires on her face looked like thin black roots. I wanted to ask if she could still hear us. I couldn't make the question come out.

Mildred spoke while she worked. "Patient response is stabilizing. Urgency is decreasing. Emotional resistance is within an acceptable range."

I understood the words. I just didn't care about them as much as I had a moment before. That frightened me. Then the fear went too. Mildred disconnected the monitoring leads from my temples and set them on the console.

The wires dragged lightly across my skin. She wiped away the sweat beneath the pads and attached a fresh set. One on the left. One on the right. She checked the lights on the console and made another note.

My hands weren't pulling anymore. "Look at me," she said.

I looked at her. "Do you understand what is happening?"

I nodded. The answer seemed to satisfy her. She checked the strap across my chest and tightened it one notch. Then she tightened the strap over my stomach and adjusted the ones at my wrists. I could feel each movement, but none of it seemed important enough to stop.

"Are you experiencing distress?"

I shook my head. "Good."

She picked up the mouthguard from the tray beside the chair. It had a clear plastic shape with a dark strap attached to either side. I watched her bring it toward my mouth. I wanted to tell her Evelyn needed me. The thought arrived without any urgency.

It was just a sentence sitting by itself. Mildred placed the mouthguard between my teeth and secured the strap behind my head. The rubber pressed against my tongue. I tried to breathe through my nose. The air came in slow and cold.

She walked to the console and entered something on the screen. The room lights dimmed. Victoria remained beside me with her eyes closed. Mildred's reflection showed faintly in the glass above the controls. The reflection looked steadier than the real woman, almost like it belonged to the room.

A red number appeared on the console. Four seventeen. Mildred checked the tablet one last time.

"Beginning another run."

The machine started with a low vibration beneath the floor. The wires at my temples tightened. The chair reclined farther back, carrying my shoulders with it. I looked at Victoria until the angle made her disappear from view. For a moment I could see the restroom block again.

The vending machines were glowing. The clock above the sinks read four seventeen. Fog covered the pavement outside, and something waited beyond it with my face. Then the image broke into squares. The console restarted the simulation.

A dark screen showed my face from the front. The cut on my forehead was already there. My eyes were open, but they didn't shine. No moisture gathered along the lower lids. They looked dark and still beneath the fluorescent light.

Four seventeen appeared in the corner. Then the next cycle began.