Women don't often stop for her. Some combination of stranger-danger paranoia and a fear that whatever put her on the road might be contagious, that they'll end up in the margins by association. They especially don't stop for her in a 1937 Frazer Nash BMW, and Rose forgets herself enough to actually gape for a moment. It's a spectacle so far out of time that she really ought to be looking at a phantom rider, but no — the woman behind the wheel isn't a road ghost. And while the car looks well-loved enough to leave a ghost of her own, her tires sit firmly on the daylight asphalt.
Rose blinks, then looks down at her outfit as if she's only just realized how inappropriate it is, taking the moment to gather herself. "Not here," she replies with a small, sheepish shrug. "I was on my way to..."
She trails off, her smile fading and her gaze going distant. All she'd done was reach for the road, trying to gauge where she was and where she might reasonably be going to, to spin a quick lie about her last ride and why they'd left her here, but this road has next to nothing to tell her, terminates in nothing a few miles in either direction. She stands on a little orphaned tributary cut off from the rivers of asphalt that cross North America, dwindling too quickly into thick-baked mud.
Where the hell is she?
She tries to drop into the twilight, to find the nearest ghostroad and run. She doesn't go anywhere. The woman is staring at her in clear concern.
"I, uh," Rose balls her hands into cold little fists and loosens them, veering unsteadily off-script. "I think I might be lost?"
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Rose blinks, then looks down at her outfit as if she's only just realized how inappropriate it is, taking the moment to gather herself. "Not here," she replies with a small, sheepish shrug. "I was on my way to..."
She trails off, her smile fading and her gaze going distant. All she'd done was reach for the road, trying to gauge where she was and where she might reasonably be going to, to spin a quick lie about her last ride and why they'd left her here, but this road has next to nothing to tell her, terminates in nothing a few miles in either direction. She stands on a little orphaned tributary cut off from the rivers of asphalt that cross North America, dwindling too quickly into thick-baked mud.
Where the hell is she?
She tries to drop into the twilight, to find the nearest ghostroad and run. She doesn't go anywhere. The woman is staring at her in clear concern.
"I, uh," Rose balls her hands into cold little fists and loosens them, veering unsteadily off-script. "I think I might be lost?"