We'd been on the road for hours.
The truck rattled beneath us, every vibration reminding me how close she was to giving out— but somehow, she kept going. Bruised. Battered. Still stubbornly alive.
We'd passed the Welcome to Missouri sign a while back. Minutes ago. Maybe longer. Time blurred when the road never changed.
Oklahoma was next.
Then Texas.
My stomach tightened at the thought.
I hated this state we were in. Every mile closer felt wrong. Like stepping back into something I'd barely escaped the first time. I wanted in and out. Fast.
Lila didn't sit beside me anymore.
She stayed in the back with the others now, quiet, withdrawn. Punishing me with distance. Or maybe protecting herself. Either way, the guilt gnawed at me.
I still felt her eyes on me.
Every so often, I caught her reflection in the rearview mirror— only for her to look away the second our gazes aligned. Like she'd been burned.
I frowned.
