They turned off the main highway and headed toward the Eastside District. The scenery changed rapidly. The manicured lawns of the suburbs gave way to cracked sidewalks, chain-link fences, and houses with peeling paint.
Inside Chloe’s car, she was livestreaming to her Instagram followers. “You guys, we are literally driving into the hood right now. My sister is crazy. Pray for my tires!”
“God, look at this,” Aunt Karen texted the group chat. “I’m locking my doors. Is that a burning barrel?”
“Keep going,” Barbara replied, typing with one hand on the wheel. “The GPS says another two miles. We have to show up. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
But then, the GPS did something strange.
Just as they were approaching the heart of the industrial zone, the voice navigation instructed them to turn left.
Turn left onto Summit Road.
Barbara frowned. Summit Road wasn’t on the map she remembered. She turned the wheel.
The road led away from the grid of crumbling streets and toward the dense, wooded hills that bordered the district. The pavement changed. It went from potholed gray concrete to smooth, dark, fresh asphalt.
The trees closed in overhead, creating a tunnel of green. The graffiti disappeared. The trash disappeared.
“Where is she taking us?” Chloe complained, her voice crackling over the car’s Bluetooth. “She lives in the woods? Like a hermit? Is she squatting in a shack?”
“Probably a trailer park hidden in the trees,” Barbara sneered to her husband, who was driving. “They do that to hide from the zoning inspectors. Get your cameras ready, girls. This is going to be tragic. I bet she doesn’t even have running water.”
They drove for another mile. The elevation climbed. The air got cleaner.
