Chapter 1
Today, I, Kayla Wardolf, am officially, legally, finally free.
My diploma’s still got that fresh-off-the-printer smell, and the keys to Dad’s beat-up Ford F-150 are practically burning a hole in my palm.
“Alright, kiddo, listen up.” Dad’s tightening down the last bungee cord on the spare tire, wiping his hands on his jeans. His blue eyes have that serious-dad look. “Old Reliable here might not look fancy, but she’s thirsty as hell. Gas her up every three hundred miles—don’t push it. And those sketchy-ass gas stations that look like they’re straight out of a murder documentary? The ones with the flickering neon and one rusty pump? Yeah, hard pass. Keep driving.”
“Daaad—” I’m already rolling my eyes, jangling the keys. There’s this ratty rabbit’s foot keychain from seventh grade still hanging on. “I’m going on a road trip, not starring in Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
“He’s got a point, honey.” Mom appears with this massive grocery bag—like, stuffed with granola bars, water bottles, and those apples that somehow never go bad. She shoves the whole thing onto the passenger seat. “And another thing—night driving. Try not to, okay? I know you think you’re invincible now that you’ve got that diploma, but nighttime’s different. You get tired, things get weird... Just find a decent motel when it gets dark, alright?”
I grab the bag and pull her into a hug. She smells like Tide and coffee, exactly like home. “Mom, I promise. I’m eighteen, not eight. I’ll text you guys constantly, send pics, call every night.”
Okay, that’s like half a lie because part of me is dying to just disappear off the grid for a bit and actually feel free, but whatever.
Mom cups my face in both hands, studying me like she’s looking for cracks. “We’re just gonna miss you so much, baby. Be careful out there. Have your adventure.” Her voice wobbles.
“Alright, alright, Molly.” Dad pulls her back against him, shooting me a wink. “Let the girl go. This is her big ‘Advanced Coastal Route’ trip! And don’t forget that diner we told you about—best damn cherry pie on the planet.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” I throw him a goofy salute and hop into the driver’s seat. Everything’s already adjusted—seat position, mirrors, and there’s this new little lavender sachet hanging from the rearview that Mom definitely snuck in. Smells like her.
The engine rumbles to life, and it feels like my own personal theme song.
I roll down the window, wave one last time, and watch them get smaller and smaller in the mirror until I turn the corner and they’re gone.
Freedom. Salt-air, wind-in-your-hair, no-curfew freedom.
The first two days blur together in the best way possible—pastel harbor towns, that legendary cherry pie Dad wouldn’t shut up about (totally worth it), and enough sunset photos to make my Instagram look like a travel influencer’s feed. I actually keep my promise, calling Mom and Dad every night from whatever motel I crash at, listening to Mom’s relieved sighs and Dad’s terrible road trip jokes.
But by day three? I’m done playing it safe.
Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” is blasting through my phone, connected to the truck’s ancient speakers, volume cranked to eleven. I’m singing—no, screaming—every word about cheer captains and bleachers and boys who don’t notice you. My voice disappears into the wind and engine noise. All that yearning in the lyrics? Feels like someone else’s story. Me, Kayla Wardolf? Sure, I’ve had crushes—on the varsity point guard, on that guy from newspaper—but actual dating? The real deal where you’re Instagram-official and holding hands in the hallway? Nope. And kissing? That’s still sitting on my “Post-Graduation Bucket List,” highlighted in pink Sharpie, completely unchecked.
I’m flying down this absolutely insane stretch of highway where cliffs drop straight into the ocean, and the sunset’s painting the sky in these crazy shades of orange and purple and pink. It’s too gorgeous to stop. I gas up, scarf down a protein bar, and just... keep going.
Night falls fast out here.
I flick on the headlights. Those scenic pullouts that were packed with tourists this afternoon? Totally empty now. Just me, this truck, and miles of dark coastline. The heat from earlier fades into this cool, salty breeze pouring through my windows. I shuffle my playlist. Bruno Mars comes on, all smooth and melancholy:
“I know you’re somewhere out there...
Somewhere far away...
I want you back...
I want you back...”
Without thinking, I glance up through the windshield—
And my breath just... stops.
I hit the brakes. Then immediately ease off because I’m still moving. My heart does this weird stutter-step thing.
The moon.
It’s massive. Like, horror-movie massive. Perfectly round, hanging right over the ocean ahead of me. But it’s not that soft, buttery yellow you usually see—it’s this cold, bright silver-white that’s almost painful to look at. The light’s so intense it’s carving this shimmering silver highway straight across the water. I can see individual waves in the distance. It’s too bright. Way too bright.
“Talking to the moon...” The song’s still playing, barely audible now.
“Holy shit...” I breathe, turning the volume down.
The radio crackles. Some late-night DJ with a gravelly voice: “...so yeah, tonight’s one of those supermoons everyone’s talking about. They say the gravitational pull messes with the tides, maybe even people’s moods... If you’re driving out there, be careful, folks. Moonlight this bright can seriously mess with your head...”
“What’s next?” I snort, talking to the empty cab like the DJ can actually hear me. “A shirtless werewolf named Jacob showing up?”
There’s a beat of static.
Then the DJ’s voice crackles back through the speakers: “...hey, you never know, sweetheart. Strange things happen under a supermoon...”
My hands freeze on the wheel.
Wait.
Wait.
That’s... that’s not possible. He couldn’t have—there’s no way he actually heard me. It’s a radio show. Pre-recorded. Or live, but not—not interactive like that. Right?
My laugh comes out shaky, too loud in the suddenly too-quiet cab. “Okay, that was weird.”
But my voice sounds wrong. Too loud. Too alone.
And that moon—God, that moon—it’s still hanging there, impossibly huge, impossibly bright, like it’s waiting for something.
Like it’s waiting for me.
Mess with your head? I stare at that moon. It’s hanging so low it feels like I could reach out and touch it. This weird calm washes over me—all the excitement from earlier, the anxiety about college, even missing home—it all just... melts away under that cold, clear light. I feel hypnotized. Like I’m just following this silver path the moon’s laid out for me. Forward. Just forward.
And then I see it.
Right where the road curves ahead, directly beneath that massive moon, there’s this beam of light on the water. Not the regular glow of moonlight reflecting—this is different. Focused. A column of silver-blue light shooting straight down, hitting the black ocean and creating this rippling, dancing patch of brightness.
What the hell is that? A boat? Some weird weather thing? Or...
My breath catches. My hands tighten on the wheel.
Every logical part of my brain is screaming: STOP THE CAR. SOMETHING’S WRONG.
But there’s this other part—this deeper, quieter part—that’s just... pulled toward it. That light feels like it’s calling me. Like it’s meant specifically for me.
I slam on the brakes.
The truck jerks to a stop, engine idling. My heart’s hammering so hard I can hear it over the music.
“Okay, okay, what the hell...” I’m talking to myself now, which is probably not a great sign. But that light—it’s still there, pulsing on the water like a heartbeat.
My hand shoots out and grabs my phone from the cupholder. Without thinking, I flip to the camera and hit record, pointing it through the windshield.
The screen shows basically nothing. Just darkness and this blurry smudge of light that looks like a thumbprint on the lens.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I mutter, zooming in and out uselessly. The image stays pixelated and dark. “This is what I get for buying the iPhone 12 instead of the 15. Should’ve skipped Coachella. Should’ve been responsible. But nooo, I had to see Billie Eilish—”
I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling.
But that light. God, that light.
Before I can stop myself, my hand’s on the door handle.
Just a quick look. Just to see what it is. Maybe someone needs help—
My fingers freeze.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head: “Those sketchy places? Keep driving.”
Mom’s voice: “Night driving’s different. Things get weird.”
I yank my hand back and slam the lock button. All four doors click shut with this satisfying thunk.
“There. See? I’m being smart. I’m being—”
The truck lurches forward.
My stomach drops.
“What the—”
I’m not touching the gas. My foot’s not even near the gas. But the truck’s moving. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, rolling toward that curve, toward that light—
Toward the ocean.
“No no no no NO—” I stomp on the brake pedal. Nothing. It’s like pressing a brick wall. The truck keeps going, keeps accelerating, the speedometer needle climbing—20, 30, 40—
My hands are shaking so bad I can barely grip the wheel. I yank it hard to the left, trying to steer away from the edge, but it’s like the steering wheel’s locked. The truck’s aimed straight at that silver-blue light like a missile.
Like it wants to go there.
“STOP! STOP!” I’m screaming now, slamming both feet on the brake, pulling the emergency brake—nothing works, nothing fucking works—
The light’s getting closer. Bigger. Brighter.
The edge of the road is right there.
Call 911. Call someone. Call DAD—
I grab my phone with shaking hands, nearly drop it, manage to swipe up—
NO SERVICE
“You’ve gotta be shitting me—”
The truck’s going faster now, 50, 60, the engine roaring like it’s possessed. Wind screams through the crack in my window. That light fills the entire windshield, blinding, beautiful, wrong—
The road curves.
The guardrail ends.
There’s nothing ahead but empty air and black water and that pulsing silver-blue glow—
“NO—PLEASE—STOP—”
The front tires leave the pavement.
For one impossible second, I’m weightless. Floating. The moon’s right there in front of me, huge and bright and so close I could touch it—
Then gravity kicks in.
The truck nosedives.
I’m screaming—or maybe I’m not, maybe there’s no air left in my lungs—
The world flips. Glass shatters. Metal shrieks.
And then—
CRASH.
Cold. So cold it burns.
Water explodes through every gap, every broken window, flooding the cab in seconds. Black, freezing, suffocating. It fills my mouth, my nose, my lungs—
I can’t swim I can’t swim I CAN’T SWIM—
I’m thrashing, kicking, but my seatbelt’s still on and I can’t find the buckle and everything’s upside down and dark and—
My lungs are screaming.
The cold’s like knives.
I can’t tell which way is up.
Above me—or below me, or beside me, I don’t know anymore—that silver-blue light’s still glowing, rippling, fading—
My vision tunnels. Goes black at the edges.
And the last thought that flashes through my oxygen-starved brain is so stupid, so completely ridiculous, I’d laugh if I could:
I never even got to kiss anyone.
Never had a real boyfriend.
Never got to do any of the things that matter.
What a fucking waste.
Then the darkness swallows me whole.
