A woman clips a cyclist with her car on a country road. Johnson captures the mother’s mounting anxiety so well I was holding my breath at one point.

Kat groaned and slapped the mirror back into place, and—as if by doing so, she’d activated a mechanical sequence—there came a soft splintering, a flash of yellow outside the passenger window, the steering wheel writhing in her hands.

She gasped and skidded to a stop. She looked in the mirror again but saw nothing behind her. Rangeline Road had once been a logging trail and was barely two lanes across, guarded on both sides by steep banks and ancient oaks.