The scar runs down his right cheek—a faded pink line from eye to jaw that most people are too polite to ask about. The truth is uglier than the story he tells: his father's belt buckle caught him at age five, and he's been running ever since.

At twenty-three, he finally leaves. Two hundred dollars. A duffel bag. A car barely worth the gas. Nothing but highway stretching ahead and everything he's escaping in the rearview.

Then he sees the hitchhiker.

Average height. Average build. Standing on the shoulder at midnight, thumb raised. Against his better judgment, he pulls over.

It's not until twenty minutes into the drive that he notices the man's eyes. His own eyes, staring back from a stranger's face. And the scar. The exact scar, in the exact position, from the exact belt buckle that caught him at an angle no one else could ...