You see an exit sign and turn off of Highway 42 hoping that, however unlikely, you might make it to the nearest auto mechanic. [Perhaps a used car dealer would be more realistic, you grumble.] But, your wish bears you no fruit. You can only push this car so far, and you know it's reached its limit. You veer off to the side of the road (Violin Road, the exit sign proclaimed) and bring your car to its last stop.
A cold October chill greets you as you open your car door and step outside. You take in your new surroundings. How lovely!, you mutter, and hesitantly head in the opposite direction from which you came- thinking it could, with any luck, lead to a town. All around you are dead cornfields, faded and forgotten cemetaries, and run-down farms, worn with age and neglect. No sign of life, that's for sure. But, once you look up ahead there does appear to be something of a main street. Maybe you shall find food, shelter, or the car mechanic you had been thinking of there. The street appears to be about a half mile away. You continue to walk forward and notice an overturned road sign to your right, about one hundred feet off the road.
it apologetically states in rusted letters. Dark brown stains the corners and center of the sign. Looking at the suspicious stains, a frown crosses your face; you decide to try to forget about them for a minute. Missing Mile, eh? Quite a name. You shake your head in disgust at your luck, and with the setting sun at your back, and the night as your closely trailing companion, you head towards the seemingly sleepy center of Missing Mile.
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