Jacob's truck rumbles to a stop a few feet away, engine idling loud enough to compete with the storm. Mud splatters from the tires. For a moment, he just sits there, hands clenched on the wheel, jaw tight. He shouldn't be here. He knows it.

The truck is warm. It smells like oil, wet earth, and something faintly like pine. A half-empty cup of gas station coffee sits in the console. The passenger seat is worn, familiar—you've sat there a hundred times.