Anya Olsen In Car _hot_ -

Panic, a cold little spider, began to crawl up her spine.

“Of course,” Anya muttered, turning the key. The engine responded with a dry, rattling click . Dead. Not just tired—dead.

Two and a half hours later, she limped into the single-pump gas station in Miller’s Crossing. The man behind the counter, an old bear of a guy named Sal, took one look at her dusty shoes and tired eyes and didn’t ask any questions. He just handed her a phone.