They didn't sleep, not really — trading watches through the small hours, one of them always awake at the shuttered window while the other rested fitfully on the narrow bed, the woodstove's low fire the only warmth against a cold that had crept into every corner of the cabin by the time gray dawn light finally began filtering through the gaps in the shutters.
It was Wren's turn at the window when she heard the engine.
Not a helicopter this time — something ground-level, moving slow and careful along the forestry track, the particular cautious pace of a vehicle navigating unfamiliar terrain. She went rigid, hand already reaching to wake Cruz, but he was already stirring, some instinct honed by years of exactly this kind of vigilance pulling him from sleep before she touched him.
"Truck,"
