Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. :)


The girl walked slowly down the soft shoulder of the road, her long, wet hair plastering itself to the sides of her face and her bare arms. She was in no hurry, despite the near-torrential storm; she would reach her destination soon enough.

* * *

The Chevrolet had lasted Bill through a thousand road trips, but she was beginning to protest, making noises about how this was gonna be the last time she hauled his sorry ass across the country and back. He couldn't blame the old girl; she was old and tired, and it was dark and wet and cold outside. He wouldn't have wanted to slog through it either.

He blinked hard and repeatedly pushed "scan" on the radio, desperately searching for some human companionship. He had a hard night ahead of him if he wanted to reach Denver before noon. Nothing but evangelism and mariachi music. He sighed and took the last, wretched sip of the coffee he'd bought at a 7-11 several hours ago. The caffeine wasn't helping. He tried the radio one more time. Through the static a vaguely familiar female voice drifted in and out, singing an inoffensive pop song, the kind of music his wife used to like. "Dear party of the first part, it's time to draw the line..."

He had to look twice at the figure standing beside the road to determine whether or not she was a late-night mirage. It wasn't that she was particularly pretty or exceptional in some other way, just that this wasn't exactly the kind of stretch of road where you'd expect to find a pretty young female hitchhiker at 4am.

(It almost sounded like a porn movie, not that he ever watched those anymore. Gladys had thrown his collection away when she moved in, and for the most part he hadn't missed the tapes. Or the magazines. Or--well, never mind.)

She was short, with long brown hair hanging straight and heavy with water over her shoulders. He felt sorry for her; there were no headlights behind him or ahead. His wife had always said don't pick up hitchhikers, but how dangerous could one little girl be? She could hardly be 17.

"Where you headed?"

"Colorado. I had a fight with my boyfriend and he left me out here like this."

"Sounds like a great guy."

"You're telling me."

"You alone?" He looked around suspiciously. He'd heard this story before; she might just be acting as bait for some nefarious roadside grifter.

"Yes."

He nodded for her to get in, which she did.

"I'm Bill."

"Fiona Phillips."

"What's your business in Colorado?"

"I'm paying my grandmother a visit."

He grinned at her. "Does that make me the big bad wolf?"

Fifteen minutes later, the Chevrolet pulled back onto the pavement from the soft shoulder. She had to remind herself not to push the accelerator too hard; she would reach her destination soon enough.

* * *

--six hours ago--

Ned had always hated driving in the rain.

Especially at night, when tired eyes play tricks on unsuspecting drivers. Was that really a girl standing on the side of the road, desperately waving her thumb in his direction?

The bus lurched to an abrupt stop, and he tried not to take pleasure in the irritation in Irene's voice when she came forward to investigate the source of everyone's sudden discomfort. "I thought you said the next rest area wasn't for 50 miles," she said flatly.

"It's not," he answered, knowing it wasn't the answer she was looking for. He wasn't by nature a vengeful man, but at this point he wasn't in the mood to be forgiving. Their argument after the last gig hadn't been especially vicious; still, the lack of closure and her continued resistance to admitting what he felt sure must be the truth led him to be less laid-back than usual about this particular disagreement. She wasn't accustomed to arguing with someone who would hold up his end of the fight.

She took a deep breath. "So why aren't we moving?"

He opened the bus door so she could see the hitchhiker standing by the side of the road, soaked to the bone.

Irene leaned in close, keeping an eye on the girl outside, who had not yet spoken. "No hitchhikers," she hissed into Ned's ear.

"Oh, come on, have a heart for once," he snapped, getting out of the driver's seat and extending a hand to the teenager. She clasped his hand gratefully and stepped aboard.

"Thank you so much," the girl said.

"What on earth were you doing out there?"

She smiled. "It's kind of a long story."

"Yeah, well, we've got time," said Irene suspiciously. "Sort of."

"I ran away from home."

Ned couldn't be sure whether Irene had actually said "Oh, great" aloud or if he'd just expected that response.

"Why?" asked Molly, who had suddenly appeared behind Irene.

The girl turned around and lifted her shirt just slightly, revealing a criss-cross pattern of fresh wounds and old scars. Irene raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but Molly nodded as if a decision had just been made. "Where are you headed?"

"Anywhere but here," the girl said, clearly relieved.

"Let's go," Molly told Ned, and led the girl to the couch as the bus began to move again. "I'm Molly Phillips; that was Ned, and this is Irene." She looked at the girl expectantly.

"Oh," she finally said. "I'm Becky." A pause. "Rebecca."

Irene watched Molly closely to see if she registered any sort of reaction, but for once she kept a pretty good poker face.

Jack and Fi hovered tentatively in the hall connecting their sleeping compartments, hesitant to interrupt but clearly dying of curiosity. "Guys," Irene said, plastering a smile on her face. "This is Rebecca. We're apparently giving her a ride to some unknown destination."

"These are my kids, Jack and Fiona," Molly broke in abruptly. "Guys, this is... Becky."

"Nice to meet you," Fi said, extending a hand.

Thirty minutes later, Fiona and Rebecca were chatting like old friends about music and books and their shared hatred of all things math-related. Jack lingered in the doorway, partially to observe his sister looking even a little bit happy for the first time in weeks and partially because he hardly felt welcome in the boys' sleeping compartment right this second.

Molly had promptly fallen asleep again on the couch, and Ned and Irene resumed their acrimonious silence.

In fact, but for faint traces of the high-speed girlish chattering of Fiona and Rebecca, the bus was completely quiet.

The silence was abruptly shattered by the brakes screeching to a halt. Irene rolled her eyes and headed forward once more. This time, Ned was all the way out of his seat, but didn't make a move to open the doors.

"What now, a lost puppy?" she began, but any other words she was about to say died in her throat.

Outside, the body of a middle-aged man lay prone in the center of the road, aligned neatly with the broken yellow line. The headlights of the bus illuminated the pool of blood that surrounded his head. He held a shotgun in one hand and a note in the other.

Ned wrapped his arms around her as Irene buried her head in his chest.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

"Don't come here," Ned shouted. "Don't look. Keep everybody back there."

Thankfully, she obeyed without question, ushering everyone else back into their compartments.

"All right," Irene said, wiping her eyes and stepping back, careful not to look out the windshield. "I'll call the police."

She disappeared in search of her cell phone.

Appearing suddenly behind Ned, Rebecca began to scream hysterically.

"DADDY!"