Turnouts I can walk in, sometimes. A couple of cyclists pass me like the skeletons of knights, clicking and breathing down my neck. Geared down and puffing, the giants never notice my terror. Monstrous trees like nothing I've ever seen at home loom over the road, shadowing it. No sound of leaves, all somber needles.
Darkness falls, fast.
I follow the edge of the pavement by feel. Suddenly it dead-ends. I cast around blind, a hobbit with a suitcase lost in alien woods. Hear girls' voices near, but see nothing. Road should be near.