The fog hung low that morning, thick as smoke and heavy with the scent of rain.
Jayden walked ahead, his boots kicking gravel down the shoulder of the road. Layla trailed behind, her hood pulled up, her steps slowing every few minutes from exhaustion.
They hadn't eaten since the night before the motel. Hunger had turned to dull ache — the kind you stop noticing until it starts to eat at your patience instead.
The highway stretched out empty before them, framed by dead trees and telephone poles that looked like crosses.
Then, just beyond the next bend, they saw it.
A car. Or what was left of one.
Smoke curled from the hood, thin and gray. One door hung open. And sprawled beside it, half in the ditch, was a man.
---
The Stranger
Jayden slowed first, hand instinctively brushing the wrench at his belt.
Layla caught up, eyes narrowing. "You think it's a trap?"
He didn't answer. He crouched low, studying the scene. The man's clothes were torn, dark with mud and blood. No movement except a twitch of fingers.
"Hey," Jayden called out. "You alive?"
The man groaned, rolling slightly. His face was pale, streaked with dirt.
"Help me…" His voice was hoarse, thin as wind. "Please."
Layla stepped forward, but Jayden blocked her with one arm. "Careful. Could be bait."
She glared. "And if it's not?"
He hesitated. He'd seen this before — back in detention, back in alleyways where kindness got you hurt. But this wasn't there. And she wasn't wrong.
He lowered his arm. "Stay behind me."
They approached slowly. The man blinked up at them, blood matting his temple.
Jayden knelt. "What happened?"
"Wreck," the man rasped. "Deer… came outta nowhere. I swerved."
Layla looked toward the car. The front end was crumpled, the windshield cracked like ice. The smell of gasoline clung to the air.
Jayden checked the man's side. A gash ran from his ribs to his hip, bleeding slow but steady.
"You're lucky," he muttered. "Could've been worse."
The man gave a weak smile. "Doesn't feel lucky."
---
The Decision
Layla pulled her sleeve over her hand, pressing it to the wound. "We can help stop the bleeding."
Jayden shook his head. "We don't have supplies. And if we stay too long—"
"Then we'll do what we can and go," she snapped. "He'll die if we don't."
Jayden looked at her — really looked. Her jaw was set, her eyes burning. The same look she'd had when she refused to leave the boy at the truck stop.
He sighed, pulled off his jacket, and tore the lining. "Fine. Make it tight."
They worked in silence, binding the wound as best they could. The man's breathing steadied.
"You from around here?" Jayden asked.
The man shook his head weakly. "Passing through. Headed north."
"Where to?"
"Doesn't matter now," he said. "You two don't look like tourists either."
Layla smiled faintly. "Something like that."
---
The Offer
When they finished, the man reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled envelope. "Here," he said, handing it to Jayden. "Take it."
Jayden frowned. "What is it?"
"Money. Directions. Maybe a way to somewhere better."
Layla blinked. "Why give it to us?"
The man's eyes fluttered, barely staying open. "Because you stopped. Most people don't anymore."
Jayden hesitated, then took it. The envelope was stained with blood. Inside — a wad of cash, and a small folded note.
"Grayford — ask for Marla. She knows the way out."
Layla read over his shoulder. "Who's Marla?"
The man smiled faintly. "Last person who tried to save me."
Then his head fell back, and he went still.
---
The Quiet After
Layla knelt beside him, fingers pressed to his neck. "He's gone."
Jayden exhaled slowly. "We can't stay."
She looked at him. "We could bury him."
He shook his head. "Ground's too hard. And we'd just leave a marker for anyone chasing us."
She stood, her face hard but her voice quiet. "That's not an excuse to stop being human."
Jayden met her eyes. "You think I don't know that? Every time I walk away, I remember."
For a moment, they just stared at each other — the space between them full of everything they'd survived and everything they'd lost trying to do the right thing.
Finally, he said, "Then we carry it instead."
He picked up the man's lighter from the ground and tossed it to her. "For the road."
---
The Crossroads
They walked on until they reached an intersection — one sign pointing west to Grayford, another north to Cold Ridge.
Layla stopped, turning the lighter over in her hand. "You think this Marla's real?"
Jayden looked down at the note again. "There's only one way to find out."
"You sure? Every time we trust someone—"
He cut her off gently. "We survive anyway."
She studied him a long moment, then nodded. "Then we go west."
As they started walking, the fog thinned, revealing the long stretch of road ahead.
Jayden looked back once — at the curve in the road where the man's car still sat, the smoke fading into nothing.
He thought of Ortiz. Of the boys from juvie. Of every ghost that had helped him make it one more mile.
Freedom, he realized, wasn't about what you escaped. It was about who you carried forward.
---
The Sketch
That night, when they camped by the roadside, Jayden opened his sketchbook again.
He drew the man — eyes closed, half-shadowed, the broken car behind him. Then the crossroads, with two figures walking west under a gray sky.
At the bottom, he wrote:
Some debts can't be repaid. Only remembered.
He closed the book, staring at the fire until it flickered low. Layla leaned against his shoulder, half-asleep.
"Think she's real?" she murmured.
Jayden looked toward the dark horizon. "She'd better be."
Because if not, he knew they'd keep walking anyway — through fog, through ghosts, through whatever waited next.
And maybe that was the point.