Devil's Cut is quiet when I return.
Not asleep — settled. The difference matters.
I roll through the gates and cut the engine inside the garage bay, the truck ticking as it cools. I don't open the tailgate right away. I let the place register what I've brought back with me. Territory recognizes movement. So do older things.
Jonah is already there. He always is.
He doesn't ask questions. He just comes to the back of the truck when I nod.
We drop the tailgate together.
The bike lies exactly as I left it — strapped, padded, respected. The raven on the tank catches the overhead light, wings half-shadowed, eyes sharp even in stillness.
Jonah exhales through his nose.
"That's it."
"Yes."
He circles while I undo the straps.
Slow. Careful.
He feels it too, even if he doesn't have the
