The heater’s gone in the old truck. Arturo shivers in his worn wool jacket. The windshield wipers can’t keep up; the driving snow is blurring his vision. Luckily, there’s no traffic on this desolate road at night. Since leaving the abandoned construction warehouse where he discovered the missing cans of food, he has no idea where he’s going.
“He must be holed up with Leila around here somewhere,” he mutters under his breath to the dog, asleep on the passenger seat. “And if he is, I’m going to find him or die trying.” He smirks, knowing he actually died a year and a half ago. He’s in the borrowed bodysuit of Arturo Rodrigues.
Turning on the rickety old radio, the reception is so bad, he gives up and clicks it off. So far there’s nothing to see on either side of the road, not a wild animal
