The rain hit the highway in slanted, angry streaks. Jack gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white. The radio crackled, then roared—guitars, drums, and a voice that felt like fire.
He pressed the gas.
The past chased him like headlights in the mirror. The motel room where she whispered she was done. The bottle smashing against the door. The sirens wailing in the distance.
“Rock and roll,” he muttered, forcing a grin.
A sign flashed by. Next town: 20 miles. It didn’t matter. Towns were just pit stops on a road going nowhere.
Lightning split the sky. In the stuttering light, he saw it—another car, too close, drifting into his lane.
Jack swerved. Tires screamed. The world spun. Metal crunched.
Silence.
A slow, painful breath. His chest burned. Blood trickled down his face. The radio still played, but softer now. The same song.
He laughed, a raw, broken sound.
The road never ended. It just looped, like a record stuck in the groove.
