The silence that rushed in was deafening, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal.

“What is it, Khloe?” I asked, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. We were nowhere. Just miles of scrub brush and an endless, indifferent sky. The sun, once so inviting, now felt hostile.

Khloe turned in her seat. The cheerful mask was gone, replaced by something hard, something unreadable. Brenda remained a statue, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Well, Eleanor,” Khloe began, her voice losing its lilt, becoming flat, almost bored. “Brenda and I have decided this isn’t going to work out.”