The song ends and another begins, startling Charlie, who’d stopped noticing the music. She had been too busy thinking. Wondering about Josh. Who he is. What he wants. Lost in her own mental fog, during which her right hand had once again found its way to the door handle at her side. This time, Charlie lets it stay there.
The new song has a slinky bass riff that slightly reminds Charlie of the surf guitar rock her parents listened to constantly. She knows the title of the song, though she’s not sure how.
“Come as You Are.”
Josh shuts off the stereo, and the car is plunged into silence.
“Let’s play,” Josh says.
“Play what?” Charlie replies, trying hard to keep from sounding as nervous as she feels.
“Twenty Questions. If we’re going to play the game, we should do it right.”
Charlie continues to study the side mirror, hoping a car will speed into view behind them. She’d feel better with another set of headlights in sight and not just a muted glow in the distance. It would mean there’s someone else nearby if things go bad. She’s seen enough movies to know how situations can change for the worse in a split second. And she’s had enough life experience to back that up.
Not that she’s certain Josh wants to do her harm. When it comes to the man sitting a mere foot away, nothing is certain. But it’s a possibility. Enough of one that she slides a little closer to the passenger door, trying to put an additional inch between them. Enough to keep her checking the side mirror, looking in vain for those headlights. Enough for the same six words to keep repeating through her head like a good-luck chant.
Be smart. Be brave. Be careful.
“I wasn’t really playing a game,” she says.
“Seemed like it to me.” Josh gives a little shrug, the lift of his shoulder cut short by his grip on the steering wheel. “Seeing how you were messing with me just now. I mean, I assume that’s why you did it. Because we’re playing a game.”
Charlie makes another minuscule edge toward the door. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Oh, I know,” Josh says. “I’m not mad. I get it. We’re stuck in this car together. Running out of things to say. Why not ask some questions and kid around a bit. So now it’s my turn. Twenty Questions. You ready?”
“I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“Humor me,” Josh says, cajoling. “Pretty please?”
Charlie relents. It’s the right thing to do. Play along, keep him occupied, hope the fog clears and more cars start to surround them.
“Fine,” she says, forcing a polite smile. “Let’s play.”
“Great. I’m thinking of an object. You’ve got twenty questions to figure out what it is. Go.”
Charlie knows the game. She played it on road trips with her parents, back when she was a little girl and they used to drive everywhere. Kings Island and Cedar Point, which were every-summer destinations. But also places outside of Ohio. Niagara Falls. Mount Rushmore. Disney World. Charlie spent every drive slumped in the back seat, sweltering because her father claimed that using the air conditioner wasted gas. When she inevitably got too bored and whiny, her mother would say, “Twenty questions, Charlie. Go.”
There was a standard question she’d always ask first. One designed to narrow things down immediately. Only now, at the start of a very different game, she can’t remember it to save her life. That lump of worry she still feels in her gut tells her Josh isn’t playing this just to amuse himself.
There are stakes involved.
Ones much higher than when she was a kid.
“You going to ask a question?” Josh says.
“Yeah. Just give me another second.”
Charlie closes her eyes and pictures those road trips like grainy home movies. Her father behind the wheel in ridiculous oversize sunglasses that clipped over his regular glasses. Her mother in the front seat with the window down, her hair trailing behind her. Her in the back seat, her sweaty legs sticking to Naugahyde, opening her mouth to speak.
The memory works. The mandatory first question pops into her head, fully formed.
“Is it bigger than a bread box?” she says.
Josh shakes his head. “Negative. One question down. Nineteen to go.”
Charlie’s memory hums like a film projector, quickly giving her the second question she’d always ask.
“Is it alive?”
“Interesting,” Josh says. “I’m going to say no, but someone smarter than me might say yes.”
Charlie considers his response, thinking hard, knowing that if she does, it might push aside all the other thoughts slithering through her brain. Scary thoughts. Ones she doesn’t want to think about. So she focuses on the game, pretending it really is just a game even though she knows it’s not.
Not for her.
“Is it associated with something alive?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s part of something.”
“Yes,” Josh says. “And I consider that a question even though it wasn’t phrased as one. That wouldn’t pass muster on Jeopardy!”
“Animal or vegetable?”
It’s another one of the standard questions she’d ask her parents on those long-ago road trips. Even though it was technically two questions, her mother always let it slide. Josh, on the other hand, calls her out on it.
“You know I can only give you yes or no answers. Care to rephrase?”
Charlie no longer tries to think about the games she played with her parents in that hot, sticky car with its perpetual McDonald’s smell. She worries the current game will ruin those memories. She doubts she’ll ever willingly play Twenty Questions again. Even if Josh turns out to be harmless. A very big if.
“Is it vegetable?” Charlie says, ridding her brain of images of her father’s clip-on sunglasses and her mother’s wind-blown hair. Instead, she pictures plants and all the things attached to them. Leaves and branches. Thorns and berries.
“No.”
“It’s animal, then.”
“Yes,” Josh says, the answer narrowing things down but not a whole lot.
“Is this animal common?”
“Very.”
“Is it wild or tame?”
“That’s two questions again, Charlie.”
“Sorry.”
Charlie’s voice goes small, and she winces upon hearing it. How weak she sounds. How scared. And she can’t sound weak or scared. She can’t, under any circumstance, let Josh know she suspects he’s up to no good. If she remains calm—if she continues to be smart, brave, careful—there’s a chance nothing bad will happen.