A Feeling at Exit 212

It was supposed to be a quiet drive from Little Rock to visit her sister in Shreveport. Paula, 68, liked to leave early in the morning, while the highways were still sleepy. She packed some snacks, filled the tank, and turned on her favorite talk radio station. It had become a yearly tradition.

Just past Hope, Arkansas, the sky had started to dim with thick gray clouds. She was thinking about pulling over when she saw the sign for Exit 212 — “Scenic Overlook and Rest Area, 1 Mile.” She didn’t remember it from before, but welcomed the chance to stretch her legs.

The lot was half-empty. One pickup truck idled near the far end. As Paula pulled in, she noticed a young man standing near the entrance to the bathrooms. He wasn’t doing anything, but something about the way he watched her car made her skin prickle.

She sat in her vehicle a moment longer, pretending to check her phone. Another man stepped out from the side of the building, glanced around, then leaned against the wall as if waiting for someone. Paula’s heart beat a little faster.

Something felt off.

She didn’t see any other travelers, no families, no chatter, no signs of the usual bustle at these roadside stops. Just those two men and the heavy silence of a coming storm.

Rather than second-guess herself, Paula turned the key, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the space slowly. She didn’t speed, didn’t look flustered, just calmly drove away. In her rearview mirror, she saw both men step forward from the building, watching her car disappear back onto the highway.

She didn’t stop until she reached a gas station outside Texarkana. It was well-lit, busy, and smelled like fresh coffee and motor oil. Safe.

Later, while sipping a diet soda, Paula couldn’t help but wonder if she had overreacted. But she also knew that her instincts had been sharpened over the years, and they had never once steered her wrong.

“I’d rather feel silly and safe,” she told the attendant with a half-smile, “than sorry and stranded.”