No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

to, and Silent Night, which he didn’t), Lars cut the Astro’s
engine and stuffed the keys into his jacket pocket. By now the
van was an eighty-degree sweatbox; the windows steamed
with condensation. Beads of dewy lamplight sparkled on the
glass. Trapped under that smothering blanket, the perspiration
and melted snow had turned Darby’s skin clammy. Her sleeves
stuck to her wrists, and underneath it, her Art Walk hoodie was
soaked with dread-sweat.
Lars scooted outside, slipped his Deadpool beanie back
over his scalp, and glanced back at the dome light. He was still
mildly perplexed by that detail. But then he turned around,
ripped ass one final, emphatic time into the cab, fanned it with
the door, sealed Jay (and Darby) inside with it, and left.
Darby listened to his footsteps fade. Then, distantly, she
heard the visitor center’s front door open and shut with a dim
clap.
Silence.
Jay peeled the electrical tape off her mouth. “He farts a
lot.”
“I noticed.”
“I think it’s the burgers.”
Darby threw the bristly blanket off her shoulders, wiping
damp tangles of hair from her face. She kicked open the
Astro’s rear door and climbed back outside. It felt like
escaping a sauna. Her Converse were soaked, her socks
grossly squishy inside them, and her right shoe was still
missing a shoelace.
“He puts ranch sauce on everything,” Jay continued. “He
asks the drive-through for a cup of it to dip his fries in, but
that’s a lie. He just pours it on—”
“Right.” Darby wasn’t listening. The subzero chill was
invigorating, like shedding fifty pounds of sweaters. She felt
agile and alive again. She knew what she had to do — she just
didn’t know how the hell she was going to do it. She stepped
back, raised her iPhone, and snapped two quick photos.