The truck fishtailed out of the gas station lot, tires spitting gravel before catching on cracked asphalt. My hands stayed locked on the wheel—steady. I'd never had a license. Never needed one. Rules like that didn't survive the end of the world.
In the rearview mirror, bodies slumped and swayed with the motion of the truck. Aubrey was folded awkwardly against the door, mouth parted, exhaustion carved deep into her face. She looked worse than the others. She'd been on watch most of the night.
So had Hale.
Lila sat shotgun. Insisted on it.
Her fingers were already threaded through mine, warm and possessive. I let it happen for a while. Let her squeeze. Let her ground herself. But after a few minutes, I gently pulled my hand free and returned it to the wheel. Two hands. Control.
She didn't protest. Not right away.
Thirty minutes passed in silence.
