The world beyond Merrindale was a stretch of rust and wind.
The road shimmered under the morning sun, cracked like old skin, lined with weeds that swayed in rhythm with the passing of ghosts. Every mile looked the same — flat horizon, broken fences, the faint hum of heat on metal.
Jayden and Layla walked it in silence. Boots scuffing the dirt. Sweat drying faster than it could form. The kind of silence that wasn't emptiness — it was survival.
They'd been on foot for three days. The small town behind them had vanished into memory, and the bounty still lingered like a shadow they couldn't shake.
Layla shaded her eyes. "You think anyone even lives out here?"
Jayden adjusted the strap of his pack. "Somebody always does. Question is whether they want to be found."
"Guess that makes three of us."
He smiled, faint and tired. "Guess it does."
---
The Ride
By noon, the road had turned to gravel. A pickup truck rattled toward them from the distance, trailing a plume of dust.
Layla tensed. "Keep walking?"
Jayden shook his head. "No. We look like we belong here."
The truck slowed as it neared, an old man at the wheel, his beard the same gray as the clouds gathering in the west. He pulled to the shoulder and rolled down the window.
"Where you two headed?"
Jayden met his eyes. "West."
The man looked them over — the dirt, the weariness, the shadows under their eyes. "You look like you been walking longer than most people live."
Jayden's lips twitched. "Feels like it."
The man grunted. "Hop in the back. Ain't much, but it's better than dying slow on asphalt."
Layla hesitated only a second before climbing in. Jayden followed, keeping his hood low.
As the truck rumbled forward, the wind whipped through their hair, carrying the smell of fuel and dust. Layla closed her eyes and let it wash over her — the first taste of movement that wasn't escape, just momentum.
---
The Stranger's Mercy
They rode for hours through farmland gone to ruin — barns collapsed into themselves, rusted silos half-eaten by ivy. The driver didn't speak much. When he finally did, his voice carried the slow certainty of someone who'd outlived too many storms.
"You two running from something?"
Jayden didn't answer. Layla's eyes stayed fixed on the road.
The man nodded as if that silence was all the answer he needed. "Ain't my business. Just don't bring trouble my way."
When the sun dipped low, he pulled off near a gas station that looked abandoned except for the flickering OPEN sign. "End of my road," he said.
Jayden jumped down. "Thanks for the lift."
The man leaned on the wheel. "World's mean, son. Don't let it convince you you're meaner."
Jayden froze for half a second. "Too late for that."
The old man nodded once, like he understood exactly what that meant, then drove off into the setting light.
---
The Station
The gas station's windows were grime-streaked, the sign above faded to a ghost of its letters. But inside, the cooler hummed faintly, and the air smelled like oil and dust.
Layla grabbed two bottles of water and a bag of chips from the shelf. Jayden wandered toward the counter, half-expecting someone to appear.
A voice came from behind the racks. "If you're stealing, at least do it quiet."
A woman stepped out — maybe late forties, tall, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp as glass. She looked at them like she'd seen every kind of trouble and was tired of being surprised by it.
"We were gonna pay," Layla said.
The woman snorted. "With what? Guilt?"
Jayden held out a folded bill — the last of what Ortiz had given him. "Enough?"
She eyed it, then him. "You're not from around here."
"No one is," Jayden said.
After a beat, she took the money, dropped it in a metal tin, and handed them a map torn from an old atlas. "West gets hotter, then emptier. If you're smart, you'll turn north before you disappear."
Layla tucked the map into her pack. "What if disappearing's the point?"
The woman smiled — tired, knowing. "Then I hope you're good at it."
---
The Night on the Hill
They camped a few miles out, near a ridge overlooking the road. The stars were bright — too bright, like they'd never seen them before without barbed wire between.
Jayden sat by the fire, the map spread across his knees. "There's a town called Grayford up ahead. Maybe fifty miles."
Layla poked at the flames with a stick. "Think we'll be safe there?"
"Safe's not real," he said. "Just quieter."
She looked up. "You ever wonder what it would've been like if none of this happened? If Mom and Dad weren't—"
He cut her off gently. "No. I stopped doing that a long time ago."
Layla nodded, eyes reflecting the fire. "I didn't. That's the problem."
He looked at her — the set of her jaw, the quiet storm behind her eyes — and realized she carried more fire than he'd ever seen in himself.
"Maybe that's not a problem," he said softly.
---
The Sketch
When she finally fell asleep, Jayden pulled the sketchbook from his jacket. The pages were wrinkled, stained, but still intact.
He drew the road first — long, endless, disappearing into light. Then two figures walking side by side, small against the horizon.
Above them, he shaded in the stars — sharp and countless.
At the bottom, he wrote: We were never lost. Just learning where not to be found.
He closed the book and looked at his sister. She was sleeping with her hand tucked under her chin, her face peaceful for once.
He thought about everything behind them — the cages, the blood, the fire — and everything ahead.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn't look like punishment. It looked like a blank page.