At first, it was just a cough. Then a violent jerk. Warning lights flickered across the dashboard like a cruel Christmas display. I eased off the gas, but it was too late. The car shuddered, lost power, and rolled weakly toward the shoulder — though I couldn’t even tell where the shoulder ended and the road began anymore.
When the engine died completely, the silence inside the car was louder than the storm. That’s when my chest tightened. Panic attacks don’t announce themselves politely. They crash in like a wave. My lungs felt compressed, like a heavy weight had been placed on my ribs. My heart slammed violently against my sternum.
My hands shook so badly I had to grip the steering wheel just to steady them. The heater began blowing weaker air, barely warm. “Breathe,” I whispered to myself. But breathing felt impossible.
I stared ahead, vision blurring through fogged glass, and that’s when I saw it. A dark shape through the chaos. About fifty or sixty yards ahead on the shoulder. A van. Dark gray or black. Half-buried already. No headlights. No flashing hazards. No exhaust. Just sitting there, unnaturally still in a world that was violently moving.
Something about it made the hair on my arms rise. If I had stayed in my seat, maybe things would have been simpler.
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