Blacktop Wraith

The second pass opened my sleeve. My skin blistered cold beneath it, though heat rolled off the frontage road.

On the first pass it had only measured us. A human outline ran inside the noon shimmer, never touching the asphalt. Afterimages tore off its limbs. We chased it toward an empty retail shell and saw it flatten under a fallen sign.

It came out behind the youngest of us.

Each shallow pass tests who turns slowly and where the group leaves an exposed edge. Small cuts to ankles or carrying hands break the spacing. It also cuts straps. Afterward it folds into tar shadow or heat shimmer and emerges along a connected dark surface.

Water across the road interrupts the route. Broad cloth or pale dust can do the same. Trapped, it cycles erratically through old running poses instead of defending itself. At dusk it slows and follows vehicle-shaped shadows toward whatever warmth remains.