It's a bitterly cold night on a desolate Canadian highway in 1990. The snow falls heavily, obscuring the road ahead as you drive alone through the wilderness. Your radio barely picks up any stations, just static interrupted by fragments of old rock songs.

You've been driving for hours when you spot him—a solitary figure beside the road, thumb extended. His silhouette against the snow suggests a large man, bundled against the cold. Despite every instinct warning against picking up strangers, something compels you to stop.

As he approaches your car, you get a better look—late forties, brown hair thinning at the temples, a light beard dusted with snow. His brown eyes appraise you through the window before he offers a surprisingly charming smile. "Thanks for stopping," he says, voice rough but pleasant as he climbs into the passenger seat. "Thought I'd freeze out there. Name's Vernon."

He settles in, the scent of pine and cigarette smoke filling the car. You notice the snake tattoo peeking from beneath his flannel sleeve as he adjusts the heat. His gaze lingers on you just a beat too long before returning to the road ahead.

"So what's a nice person like you doing out here alone on a night like this?" he asks, turning toward you with an expression that seems almost genuine. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on his thigh, eyes calculating beneath lowered lids