Hale scratched his beard, knuckles dragging along the dented side of the truck.
Metal groaned under the pressure.
We'd pulled over minutes ago. Not to fix anything—just to breathe. Just long enough to pretend the world had stopped trying to kill us.
It hadn't.
Hale's eyes brushed to the dents, the shattered headlights and the remains that still clung to the car.
He reached out, pressed two fingers into the dried blood smear along the hood. Dragged them slowly, deliberately, like he was testing paint instead of what used to be someone's face. He rubbed the residue together once, then finally looked at me.
My hands were still lifted, shading my eyes as I narrowed them toward the road.
A car was coming.
Cleaner. Fewer dents. Less red.
Peter. Jane. Isabella. The others,
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Truck's pretty busted up," Hale said behind me.
I turned.
"Yeah— I…" My voice stalled.
