Cherry Pie
Guess where we're going if we swing real fast?
Hidden Tracks takes its titles from songs I heard when I was the right age to let them all the way in. Then it drags them somewhere darker than the lyrics were ever willing to go. You don’t need to know the songs to get the stories. But if you do, they’re going to sit differently after this.
See all Hidden Tracks stories →
It was 3:00 a.m. in Cincinnati.
Vance sat in the driver’s seat of Rig 14 with a back that had been forty-five for the last six years. Snowmelt hissed under the tires. The heater coughed dry air at his knees. He reached into the diagnostic kit on the dash, past the sterile gauze, the Narcan, the trauma shears.
In the bottom corner sat a small red sachet.
It looked like a packet of fast-food ketchup. No brand name. Just a white label stamped with a string of alphanumeric code ending in W4RR4NT.
