Viv:
The road stretched out in front of us like a scar through the desert. Dust clung to the windshield in a thin veil, but I could still see him—Knox—riding just ahead of us, his broad shoulders hunched with purpose, the 1965 Panhead roaring like something out of an old war movie. Every time the wind shifted, I caught the smell of engine oil and sand. It was sharp. Gritty. Real.
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Callie sat in the passenger seat, silent, watching the horizon as it bled into the sky. She hadn’t said much since we left the house, just traced her thumb over the edge of the burner phone I gave her, tapping it in a rhythm that didn’t quite match her heartbeat.
“You okay?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the road.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I want to be.
