The truck rumbled quietly beneath them, its ageing engine a tired hum in the dawn-tinged silence.
Mist clung to the edges of the world outside, its pale tendrils slinking across the ground like they were searching for an open window, a broken seal, a breath.
Inside the truck, there was no warmth. Just tension. Claustrophobic and thick like the air before a storm.
Sam drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes sharp despite the bags beneath them. Mike dozed beside him, head tilted toward the fogged window.
In the back, Richard's breathing was growing shallower, his chest rising and falling in short, hitching spasms as Ima dabbed sweat from his brow with a ripped shirt sleeve. His lips were pale. His skin waxy.
Zara held Leo against her chest, his small arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. He was awake but quiet, his wide eyes locked on Richard with the raw, heavy curiosity only children carried—the kind that didn't yet know how to look away from pain.
