"Do not go home tonight."

I blinked dumbfounded at the message displaying on my iPhone screen from an unknown number. What the fuck?

"Sarah, is everything alright?"

I look up, phone still in hand, at the rest of the table. With a flash of embarassment, I realize my cohort of coworkers is starting at me. It's Thursday night - happy hour at the local Cheesecake factory. Spending time outside of work with the people I'm already forced to spend 8 hours of my days with isn't my favorite thing. But I know our boss is a chill for the tradition, and since I'm new in town and really can't afford the one pillar of my life that's stable [my job], I tend to bury my pride and make it out.

My co-worker, Chelsea, gives me a look of faux concern. Chelsea is one of those people that can't help but to kiss authority's ass. Someone else's discomfort, like mine in this moment, is her oppurtunity to turn on the fake empathy and endear herself to everyone by playing the part of concerend coworker. She flips her hair back and although her brow furrows in a calculated guise of giving a shit about me, her eyes are shining. She continues on:

"Michael was just talking about his snowboarding trip from last weekend, and we all know how much experience you must have had with the sport coming from way up in Vermont and all. But you were clearly so...distracted."

I hastily shove my phone back in my coat pocket.

"I - uh - yeah - didn't really do many winter sports while I was in Vermont. And I didn't grow up there...just went there for college."

With my absolutely abysmal and unengaging response, the rest of the group turns back to their regularly scheduled gossip. I sip my too-sweet cocktail and count down the minutest til this will all be over.

After what feels like an eternity, the group begins to disperse. Those with little people back home make a show of saying how they simply MUST get back to their families. This is my reprieve. I slip out quietly amongst the parents. Thankfully, no one questions my Irish goodbye.

Once in my car, I lock the door out of habit and pull my phone back out of my pocket. The same message still shines on my screen. I chew my lip and try to decide what to do. This is probably a scam right? Some kind of tactic for a data collection company to try to get me to tell them my address or something. As a super non-tech person, this concept seems logical enough and I decide to ignore what is surely just your run of the mill attempt to steal an identity, and head for home.

I sing along to my nostalgic early 2000s pop punk playlist as I zip along the highway - thankful that the traffic Gods of Atlanta are choosing to be kind to me tonight. I've lived a lot of places in my life, growing up the daughter of an Air Force pilot, and as far as I can ascertain the traffic in Atlanta is the absolute worst in the country.

My drive home this evening is uneventful, thoughts of the mysterious text drowned out by Yellowcard and laughing to myself at various coworker related incidents that had occurred throughout the day.

I make the last turn into my cul du sac and immediately slam on my brakes. Parked in front of my house is a black van. A split second after my brain was able to comprehend what I was looking at, the van's engine revs to life and headlights illuminate my neighbors yard. The text I received earlier comes crashing into the forefront of my mind, and although there could be a 1,000 rational explanations for what this van could possibly be doing here, I act on instinct - get the fuck out.