Took

Ethan Hanes, a weary UFOlogist with a PhD in Aerospace Engineering, breaks down on a dusty desert road under a scorching sun. His car’s dead, his water’s low, and his destination—a reluctant favor for his ex, Molly—feels a lifetime away. As dusk falls, he’s stranded, chewing the last of his trail mix, phone signal nonexistent. A distant rumble stirs hope: a red pickup approaches. Ethan flags it down, but it slows only to speed off, leaving him shouting into the void. Night cloaks the desert in cold darkness, and Ethan, shivering in his car, reaches for a bottle of pills from the glove compartment—a quiet hint of his despair. Headlights pierce the black, and he spits the pills back, scrambling out to wave like a madman. This time, the pickup stops. The Driver, a shadowed figure with a blinding flashlight, steps out. Ethan’s grateful but uneasy as the man surveys his car, asking curt questions: “You alone?” “Where’s your people?” Ethan stumbles—yes, alone, but folks expect him “a few miles up.” The Driver’s skepticism cuts through: “You coulda walked that.” Ethan deflects, begging a ride to get cell reception. The Driver agrees, and they climb into his beat-up truck, its interior a relic—torn seats, cracked windshield, an American flag air freshener dangling like a taunt. Silence hangs heavy; Ethan’s small talk (“Nice truck”) falls flat. A sudden jolt stops them cold. “Pop the hood,” the Driver growls. Ethan hesitates but complies, stepping into the dark. The engine roars back to life, headlights flaring—but the driver’s seat is empty. Gunshots erupt, and Ethan dives under the truck, rolling into the sands as bullets pepper the dirt. He flees, hiding behind a creosote bush, then a cholla cactus, its spines biting as the truck peels away. Morning finds Ethan in a clinic, wincing as a doctor plucks cactus needles from his backside. Molly, a sharp-edged freelance journalist, watches from the corner—his ex, now his reluctant savior. Their history crackles: a lost baby, a bitter split, her skepticism clashing with his UFO obsession. She’s here for a story—an alien abductee named Cyrus—and needs Ethan’s cred to seal the deal. He’s shaken, ready to bolt after last night’s attack, but Molly guilts him into staying: “The meteor shower’s this weekend. Without you, I’ve got nothing.” Grudgingly, he agrees, spotting her flag air freshener—a grim echo of his shooter’s truck. As they leave, that same red pickup tails them unnoticed. At Cyrus’ mobile home, a wiry desert rat in a mesh cap spins tales of tall, non-grey aliens and a coming “meteor shower” he’s dreamed of—plus a truck breakdown mirroring Ethan’s night. Molly’s skeptical; Ethan’s intrigued, sensing overlap. Cyrus leers at Molly’s hair, pressing a ribbon on her she rejects. His wife, Bridget, a husky waitress, storms in, mistaking them for dope peddlers. She’s brash, dismissive—Cyrus’s UFO yarn won’t pay bills. Later, Molly finds the ribbon in her pocket, unnerved. Ethan floats a theory: a time-slip, where timelines crossed, and she took it unknowingly. She scoffs, but their past flares, and they teeter on reconciliation. A shadowy figure flees their bathroom window, leaving a hissed warning. Next day, Ethan retraces his ambush site, finding his water bottle and shell casings near a joint—proof Cyrus might be his shooter. Molly balks at the lack of footprints—wind, or something weirder? Ethan marks an “X” in the sand with the bottle, vowing to bring Cyrus back that night. Molly visits with Bridget, probing her life with Cyrus—a cheating, jobless drunk she endures for a roof. Bridget doubts his UFO claims but hints at darker secrets, slapping Molly when pressed too far. At home, Molly finds Ethan’s pills, her concern deepening. That night, Ethan and Cyrus camp by the “X.” Cyrus spins a ghost story: Charlotte, a girl lost in 2002 playing hide-and-seek, her laugh luring searchers astray. Ethan’s rattled—too vivid, too personal. A figure with glowing eyes stalks them; Ethan bolts up, but it vanishes. Cyrus drinks despite Ethan’s protests, surrendering his keys. Alone in the tent, Ethan wakes to footsteps. Cyrus lies passed out by the fire, whiskey bottle empty. A creature rips through the tent, grabbing Ethan’s throat—he bites it, tasting human blood. It flees, leaving child-sized footprints and a girl’s laugh: “Come find me…” Cyrus, groggy, denies a gun but pulls a blood-matted knife, confessing he faked the UFO tale. He brought migrant girls here, killed one who’s now “not dead,” and begs for his keys. Ethan tosses them into the dark, pressing on alone. Molly and Bridget, find Cyrus’ truck with “Come Find Me” scratched on it and a child’s handprint. They track the “X,” spotting bullet casings—Bridget’s gun, she admits, tight-lipped. A girl’s voice cries “Mommy!”—Bridget chases it, Molly trailing. Ethan, lost, sees a demonic child by a Joshua tree, then a glowing sky—alien or hallucination? Molly and Bridget find him bloodied but unharmed, Cyrus dead nearby. Bridget accuses Ethan, lunging with the knife; Molly knocks her out with a skull—Charlotte’s, a 2002 diary confirms. It’s theirs, Molly reveals—Cyrus and Bridget’s daughter, murdered, hidden here. Bridget wakes, sees a shadowy Charlotte calling “Mama,” and vanishes into the dark with a howl. Exhausted, Ethan and Molly hide behind a boulder. He confesses love, mourning their lost “three of us.” A doppelgänger Ethan lures them out, whistling—it’s him, gun in hand. The real Ethan tackles him, shots ring out, and Molly flees, following child footprints to her car. She waits, headlights flashing as Ethan staggers up, wounded. Inside, he calls it a time-slip—his other self tried to kill them. She's not sure; he insists it’s real. Another jolt stops them; he asks her to pop the hood. Wary, she does—he’s gone. Gunshots force her down; the car speeds off. She finds Ethan by the cholla, dazed, recounting his breakdown—like it’s Day 1. A girl’s silhouette—“Mommy… Daddy… You found me”—fades as meteors blaze overhead. Days later, Ethan packs to leave Molly’s place. She stops him with a pregnancy test—positive, impossible unless it’s Charlotte, a time-slip child from their future. He’s torn—his doppelgänger’s threat looms, tied to his pills and despair. Molly argues he stopped himself, saving her; she’s read his books, believes now. They kiss, unpack his things, ditch the flag air freshener, and drive off—tentative hope against an uncertain fate.