No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

The time she dreamt that her throat closed up in seventh
grade Social Studies class and she vomited a three-inch
maggot, pale and bloated, writhing on her desk?
3:21 a.m.
The time a man stalked her on her way to Seven-Eleven,
whistling at her, and then cornered her in the restroom,
produced a tiny handgun, and shot her in the back of the head?
3:33 a.m.
The time that tall ghost — a gray-haired woman with a
floral skirt and double-jointed knees, both bending backward
like a dog’s hind legs — came lurching through Darby’s
bedroom window, half-floating and half-striding, weightless
and ethereal, like a creature underwater?
3:00 a.m. exactly.
Coincidence, right?
Witching hours, her mother used to say, lighting one of her
jasmine candles. When the demons are at their most powerful.
Then she’d snap her Zippo lighter shut for emphasis —
click.
Here and now at the Wanapani rest area, it was only 11
p.m., but Darby still imagined a darkness gathering in the
room with her, with all of them. Something sentient pooling in
shadows, giddily awaiting violence.
She hadn’t yet decided how she’d attack Lars.
She’d already memorized the floor plan of the visitor
center. It was simple, but honeycombed with significant
details. A rectangular main lobby with two gendered
restrooms, crusty drinking fountains, and a locked supply
closet labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY. A stone-and-mortar
coffee counter, encircling a closed coffee shop, sealed off with
padlocked security shutters. One highly-visible front door with
a squeaky hinge. One broad window overlooking the parking
lot, half-blocked by a shelf of windswept snow. And a small,
triangular window in each restroom, nestled into the ceiling,