Northbound 102 was usually packed tight with cars. But not today. It was empty. Not one soul existed for miles, for as far as I could see through the fog. The road and the sky were the same dismal gray, interrupted by the occasional flash of electricity.
I glanced in my rearview mirror, which I'd angled downward so I could see my son Ralph in his car seat. He'd gotten my iPod out of the bag I'd hastily chucked in the seat beside him and was playing with the earbuds.
"Ralph. Stop," I said. He looked at me. With an infant grin, he placed the earbuds in his mouth.
"Ralph! Put those down!"
He didn't listen. So I stopped. I pulled onto the shoulder, my four-ways on out of habit, and wrestled the earbuds from my son's mouth.
Another flash of electricity appeared. And another. Seemingly sneaking closer to the car, as if stalking us. I raced out of there as fast as I could. Ralph screamed in his car seat.
It was an hour and a half before the electricity stopped following us.
M. J. Piazza is a Jesus-loving, dog-walking country girl who just so happens to write books.