The Wrong Answer Ride

The giggle became hiccups, then the wet whisper of something crawling on leather.

“You didn’t order a car seat,” I muttered. “You didn’t order this ride either,” the driver said.

“When it asks you a question, answer wrong.” My throat dried. “It can talk?”

A tiny voice behind me purred, too clear: “Is this your mommy?” The driver winced

and mouthed, Wrong. “No,” I blurted. “I’m your… uncle.” A long,

disappointed exhale. The car surged forward. Streetlights smeared into pale lines. My phone blinked

on for one second—one bar—just long enough to show a text from UNKNOWN: LOOK BACK. The baby-voice deepened,

impatient. “Are you sure?” “Yeah,” I lied, louder than necessary. The driver nodded.