The gardener’s truck rattled as it crossed the state line, a dissonant symphony of loose bolts and dying suspension that felt like the only thing keeping me awake. The heater was stuck on high, blowing a dry, metallic warmth that smelled of old tobacco and engine grease. Outside, the lush, manicured greenery of the Wolfe estates had vanished, replaced by the jagged, indifferent silhouettes of the Appalachian foothills.
Ethan’s head was resting against the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat. His breathing was heavy, a rhythmic, wet sound that made my heart ache with every mile. Julian was squeezed into the middle, his long legs folded uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror as if he expected the sky itself to descend and reclaim us.
In my lap, cradled in the hollow of my arm
