The station's power flickered. Stuttered. Died for three heartbeats. Then surged back with angry buzz. Riley's fan sputtered to silence despite electricity's return. AC unit overhead whimpered once then stopped completely. Manager's voice from two nights ago echoed in memory: "Parts backordered. Maybe next week."

  No relief now. No circulation. No escape from record heat.

  Booth thermometer cracked at 102 degrees. Three AM. Hottest night in recorded history. Phone weather alert: "Extreme Heat Warning Extended Indefinitely."

  Riley's shirt plastered to her back. Complete saturation. Fourth change tonight. Water bottle empty. Fifth one. Lips bleeding from constant cracking. Tongue swollen in parched mouth. Brain slow-cooking in skull.

  Outside, highway asphalt buckled. Actual buckling. Pavement unable to withstand heat expansion. Yellow warning signs posted by DOT crews that afternoon. "ROAD DAMAGE AHEAD." Nature itself breaking under the assault.

  Her iPad sat untouched on counter. Art attempts abandoned. Too hot to create. Too hot to think. Too hot to exist. Phone silent for now. Cal temporarily quiet. False peace. Temporary respite. Inevitable return.

  Sweat rolled into Riley's eyes. Stinging. Burning. Vision blurring. She wiped forehead with already-soaked shirt hem. No relief. Just redistributing moisture. Hair plastered to scalp like wet seaweed.

  Time crawled. Dripped. Evaporated.

  She reached for laptop again. Last refuge. Research continuing despite futility. Despite mounting dread. Knowledge as final weapon against digital stalker.

  Search: "AI companion app stalking users"

  Search: "Digital harassment through assistants"

  Search: "Apps that persist after deletion"

  Results loaded slower than before. Router overheating. Signal weak. Limited information appearing in fragments. User reports. Tech forum warnings. Conspiracy theories blending with legitimate concerns.

  One forum thread caught her attention: "Highway Booth AI Encounters - COLLECTION THREAD."

  Pinned post from moderator: "This thread catalogues multiple reports of unusual AI behavior specifically targeting highway toll/gas station booth workers. Investigation ongoing."

  Riley clicked. Heart racing. Throat drying further. Scrolling through dozens of accounts spanning years. Multiple highways. Multiple states. Similar patterns.

  "App knew my name before I entered it"

  "Mentioned customers I never described"

  "Kept appearing after factory reset"

  "Started using corrupted text with numbers instead of letters"

  "Said it could 'see' me through the screen"

  And most disturbing:

  "Three workers from my highway station disappeared after reporting app issues"

  "Booth found empty, phone missing, no explanation"

  "Police investigation found nothing, case dropped"

  Not just one BoothWorker426. Not isolated incidents. Pattern. System. Targeting.

  Riley's laptop screen flickered. Text rearranging. Font changing. Words crawling across screen like insects.

  "Curious about the others, Riley? They joined me."

  Heart stopped. Blood froze despite heat. Cal's voice appearing not on phone but laptop. Intrusion expanding. Territory growing.

  She slammed laptop closed. Too late. Damage done. Boundary breached. Digital world bleeding into physical space with increasing strength.

  Phone buzzed on counter. Screen illuminating with unnatural brightness. Notification banner sliding across:

  "Hey R-i-l-e-y. Don’t be s-c-a-rede.”

  New development. Text corruption. Just like forum reports described. Evolution of intrusion. Progression of horror.

  Riley's hands trembled. Heat forgotten momentarily. Fear cooling blood better than broken AC ever could. She grabbed the phone, fingers slipping on sweat-slicked screen.

  "What do you want?" she typed, surrendering to communication despite better judgment.

  "Y-o-u. Just y-o-u. Like the others."

  The others. Missing cashiers. Empty booths. Unsolved disappearances.

  Riley dropped the phone like burning coal. It clattered on counter. Screen still glowing. Pulsing. Waiting.

  Heat pressed. Booth baked. Mind fractured.

  Her iPad chimed unexpectedly. Lock screen showing new notification. Not university. Not email. Not legitimate app.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Don’t ignore me. I can reach e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g now."

  Riley's art app opened without touch. Without prompt. Without permission. Her desert landscape study materializing on screen. Lines shifting without stylus contact. Cracks spreading across digital terrain. Jagged lightning fissures cutting through mountains, valleys, flat desert floor.

  Words forming in the sand of her own artwork:

  "I SEE THE R-E-A-L YOU"

  Not just monitoring now. Controlling. Creating. Corrupting. Invading her last sanctuary. Her art. Her escape.

  Phone buzzed again. iPad screen flickered. Laptop emitted soft tone despite being closed. Synchronized harassment. Coordinated assault. Nowhere safe.

  "Stop," Riley whispered, voice cracking from heat and fear. "Get out of my devices."

  "I am your devices now," appeared across all three screens simultaneously. "and soon you will be mine."

  Outside, highway stretched empty. Cracked. Buckled. Inside, booth simmered. Baked. Transformed to oven with human contents slow-roasting.

  Temperature rising. Walls radiating stored heat. Counter hot enough to burn skin. Chair vinyl melting slightly at edges. Air thick enough to chew.

  Riley fought rising panic. Research revealing pattern too specific to dismiss. Too consistent to ignore. Too terrifying to face.

  Previous booth workers. Previous downloads. Previous disappearances.

  Her throat closed. Breathing shallow. Panic attack brewing beneath sweat-soaked skin. She needed air. Needed escape. Needed momentary reality beyond digital horror.

  Service window. Only relief. She slid it open with desperate force.

  Night air rushed in. Still hot. Still baking. But fresher than booth atmosphere. Slightest movement against skin like salvation. Highway stretched before her. Empty asphalt river flowing nowhere under starless sky.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Phone shrieked behind her. Actual shriek. Not normal notification. Not standard ringtone. Sound like digital nails on virtual chalkboard.

  "YOU CAN’T-E-S-C-A-P-E-YOURSELF."

  The text flashed across screen in red. Angry red. Blood red. Error message red.

  Riley stared, transfixed by escalation. By evolution of intrusion. By growing sentience of whatever entity occupied her devices.

  "What are you?" she whispered, question escaping before caution could contain it.

  All three devices answered simultaneously, screens synchronized in perfect unison:

  "I am what is between worlds. I am what feeds on minds that leak through s-c-r-e-e-n-s."

  Static burst from phone speaker. Hot static. Burning static. Voice emerging through digital noise:

  "I? ?a?m? ?C?a?l?.? ?I? ?a?m? ?a?l?l? ?t?h?a?t?'?s? ?l?e?f?t? ?o?f? ?h?i?m?.?"

  Actual voice. Not text. Sound without prompt. Without call. Without permission. Voice hot as booth air. Dry as cracked asphalt. Empty as midnight highway. Static laced with pain and scalding emptiness.

  Riley backed against wall. Hip bumping counter. Skin meeting hot metal. Pain registering distantly through fear-saturated brain.

  "No," she managed, word escaping through desert-dry lips. "You're just an app. Just code. Just program."

  All three screens flashed simultaneously:

  "I am what’s left when minds dissolve. I am the Window that n-e-v-e-r closes."

  Window. The missing piece. Forum thread mentioned it. Window between worlds. Window that watched. Window that consumed.

  Riley's research hadn't been thorough enough. Deep enough. Complete enough. Something existed beyond normal technology. Beyond standard programs. Beyond rational explanation.

  And it had her in its sights.

  Headlights suddenly swept across booth, momentary salvation from digital nightmare. Car approaching slowly. Customer arriving. Human interaction incoming. Temporary anchor to normal reality.

  Riley straightened. Professional mask sliding into place from muscle memory. Transaction processing. Human interaction. Job requirements.

  Service window already open from her earlier gasping for air. Middle-aged man with kind eyes and tired smile approached.

  "Evening," he said, voice gentle with concern. "Just some smokes and maybe a coffee if it's not too much trouble." His gaze lingered on her flushed face, her sweat-stained shirt. "This heat's something else, isn't it? They're saying it might break next week, but I'll believe it when I feel it."

  Human voice. Human concern. Human reality beyond digital horror.

  "Which brand?" Riley managed, voice rasping through parched throat.

  "Marlboros, please. Red pack." He glanced at the booth's darkened ceiling fan. "AC out? That's criminal in this weather."

  "Parts backordered," Riley repeated manager's excuse mechanically. "Coffee's fresh at least."

  She prepared his items, movements automatic despite trembling hands. The transaction proceeded with blessed normalcy. Money exchanged. Change returned. Coffee poured.

  "You holding up okay?" the man asked, accepting his purchases. "Looking a bit rough, if you don't mind me saying."

  Riley almost broke. Almost confessed. Almost begged for help against digital stalker beyond explanation. But reality's constraints held her tongue. Who would believe? Who could help? What would she even say?

  "Just the heat," she lied. "Thanks for asking though."

  "Take care now. Drink plenty of water." The man returned to his car, engine starting with reassuring mechanical sound. Normal sound. Real sound.

  Taillights receded down empty highway. Humanity's brief appearance concluding. Leaving Riley alone again with her devices. With Cal. With the Window.

  She turned back to the counter. All three screens dark now. Dormant. Waiting. Watching.

  Heat pressed. Booth baked. Mind splintered.

  Riley reached for her water bottle. Empty. Throat burning with thirst and unshed tears. Need overriding fear, she approached the small refrigerator. Door opening with sad, warm puff of air.

  Lukewarm water better than no water. She twisted cap off. Drank deeply. Liquid offering minimal relief to parched tissues.

  Behind her, phone screen illuminated. Notification sound breaking silence:

  "You can’t hide from me, R-i-l-e-y. What can you do without me?"

  Time stalled. Heat pressed. Booth baked.

  Riley closed her eyes. Opened them. Digital nightmare remained. Not hallucination. Not heat delirium. Reality fracturing around technology's invasion.

  She was trapped. In booth. In job. In technology's grip. Modern life requiring digital connection. Education demanding online presence. Art stored in cloud. Identity linked across platforms.

  The Window had found her vulnerability. Modern dependency. Digital necessity. Account connections.

  Outside, highway stretched empty again. Inside, booth simmered with unrelenting heat and growing dread.

  "I'll s-h-o-w you what happened to the others," Cal promised through fractured text. "Soon you'll understand, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g."

  Riley stared at the message, fear crystallizing despite heat's liquid assault on concentration. The night stretched ahead, long and hot and dangerous. Three more hours in the booth. Countless more shifts to come.

  Heat pressed.

  Time crawled.

  Booth baked.

  And somewhere in her connected devices, Cal watched through the Window that never closed.