"Ahaa! The ghost truck."
He still hadn't told anyone about that. It sounded insane even to him, but he knew what he saw. There was no driver. None.
Fortunately, he'd been wearing his glasses at the time. If he hadn't, he might've second-guessed himself. But no, he saw it clearly. The truck was empty.
Totally empty.
"Do you happen to know how…"
He paused, trying to piece his words together so he wouldn't sound like he needed a psych eval.
The unfinished question immediately caught Father Nicholas's attention.
"Go on, son," he said calmly, still wrapping the bandage with careful hands. His voice was so placid, so soothing, it made it harder not to talk. He motioned for Simon to turn toward him so he could finish properly. Now they were face-to-face.
Simon let out a deep sigh.
"Th—the truck… it had no driver," he blurted, quick and clipped like he was afraid the words would burn him if they stayed in his mouth too long.
Father Nicholas paused mid-wrap. For a second, nothing. Then a soft chuckle slipped out as he dropped his gaze, almost like he hadn't meant to laugh but couldn't help it.
"What a joke," he said casually, returning to his task.
Just as Simon expected. Unbelievable.
He let out an annoyed breath and looked away. Nicholas didn't press further or even glance up. No curiosity. No skepticism. Just a polite, closed-door smile.
"All done now."
Father Nicholas stood, packing up the first aid kit like nothing had happened.
"Thanks," Simon muttered as he got to his feet, glancing down at the tight bandages wrapped across his torso. It was snug. Almost suffocating.
"Mmhm." Nicholas responded, giving Simon a quick once-over and nodding in approval. Then he picked up the kit and walked off to return it.
"Do you happen to know why a sixteen-wheeler would be driving through town?"
Simon's follow-up came quick, sharp, almost like a test.
That made Father Nicholas freeze.
His hand hovered above the kit, motionless.
Now that got to him.
"Hmm. Now that's interesting," he said, dropping the kit gently. He turned slowly to face Simon.
"No, I don't. Not a clue. But now I'm just as curious as you are."
He studied Simon's face, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
"What did the driver look like? And do you remember the number plate?"
A calm question. But it completely ignored the first and most important thing Simon had said.
Simon gave him a flat stare that screamed, Seriously, Father?
He sighed, clearly irritated.
"There was no driver," he replied, voice firmer now.
"I know how that sounds. I know it's unbelievable. But that's exactly what it was. There was no one in the truck. And no, I didn't think to check the number plate."
His shoulders dropped a little, and with them, his hope.
Of all people, he thought Father Nicholas would get it.
He wanted him to get it. That tiny spark of maybe-this-isn't-crazy was already flickering out.
Father Nicholas rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, brows drawn low.
"Hmm. I see."
And this time, it wasn't dismissive.
He stood there, motionless for a few seconds, lost in a quiet storm of calculation.
Because Simon wasn't the type to make things up. And something about this didn't sit right.
"I'll look into it," he said at last. His tone was gentle, but there was something steelier underneath now.
"Glad you're alright. Here."
He reached out, handing over the monkey jacket Steve had left for Simon. Simon took it silently, the fabric cool against his fingertips.
"About your transfer to the city..."
"I still have the whole week to respond to that. I'm still here." Father Nicholas cut him off with a soft chuckle.
"I won't be far," he added, smiling.
Simon chuckled too. It was a relieving statement, but not quite what he needed to hear.
"I'd love to visit you in the city," he said, his tone light, a small smile on his lips.
Father Nicholas' cheerful face shifted. His smile dissolved, replaced by something colder. Distant. A sudden black look swept across his face like a cloud blotting out the sun.
The change startled Simon.
He blinked. What had he said?
It wasn't like Father Nicholas to get like this. The man was always composed. Gentle. Soft-spoken. You could almost forget he was hiding anything beneath that calm surface. But this? This was a rare crack in the glass.
Simon mentally replayed his words. Nothing seemed wrong. No insults. No mistakes. Just a simple, hopeful sentence.
The last time he remembered seeing this exact look on Father Nicholas' face, he had been a child—maybe seven, maybe eight. He had asked to go with his mother to the city. The reaction from the adults was almost violent. They had shut him down, hard. Told him he was too young. Told him the outside world was dangerous. Told him he needed to stay within the safety of Willow Creek.
He listened then. He had no choice.
But now he was nineteen. Soon to be twenty. He had a life to live, a college future to chase. His dreams were bigger than the fence lines of Willow Creek. Why were they still treating him like porcelain?
"Did I say something offensive, Father?" he asked, tone polite but firm.
Father Nicholas forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"No. You didn't," he said softly. "Your mum must be worried about you. Why don't we go meet her?"
He turned and walked off, quiet and composed. Too quiet.
Simon stood there for a beat longer, unsatisfied. That wasn't an answer. But he followed him anyway.
Back at the church, a few people were still around. They hadn't all left. Some had stayed behind to see him, to make sure he was okay. Their kindness was overwhelming. This place was filled with such soft-hearted people. People who meant well. People anyone would be lucky to have around.
Father Nicholas signaled to Steve as soon as he stepped out of the cellar with Simon. No words. Just a glance. Steve understood.
They moved toward the edge of the church compound, out of range from curious eyes. Simon watched them go, noting the way their bodies carried tension. This wasn't small talk. It wasn't catching up. Something was off.
He wanted to follow, but no one had invited him. And right now, the whole church had their eyes on him. He couldn't just get up and walk off. Not without causing a scene.
Outside, the two men walked in silence toward where Nicholas had parked.
"This is bad," Father Nicholas finally said, low but firm. "Thank God they weren't intercepted."
Steve glanced at him, puzzled. "Intercepted?" He said it slowly, like he needed to be sure he'd heard right. "What do you mean, Nick?"
Nicholas stopped walking. Steve did too.
"He said he saw a truck. Sixteen-wheeler. Driverless."
Steve's face didn't change at first, but his shoulders tensed. Then his brows slowly pulled together, like gravity was settling on his face.
"A ghost driver?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Nicholas nodded. "It's sooner or later."
Steve stared at him for a beat, like he didn't want to believe what he thought it was. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, exhaled slowly. "You think it's them?"
There was a pause. Nicholas placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, grounding him.
"That, I don't know." Father Nicholas responded, his voice quieter now. "We always knew this wouldn't stay buried forever," he added, gently. "It was only a matter of time."
Steve said nothing. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked toward the church, where his son still sat surrounded by people who had no idea what was really going on.
Nicholas gave his shoulder a light pat and kept walking. Steve followed, slower this time.
"Are we calling help?" Steve asked, voice a little more steady now.
Nicholas popped open the trunk, looked inside, then gave a small nod. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet."
He closed it and moved to the driver's door.
"What now?" Steve asked.
Nicholas looked up at him with calm certainty. "I'm going to find her."
Steve blinked. "Her?"
Before Nicholas could answer, a third voice cut in.
"To find who?"
They both turned. Simon was standing a few steps away, face unreadable. His eyes shifted between them, sharp and searching.