The truck was a faded blue pickup with rust on the wheel wells and a heater that only worked when the engine was running hot. It belonged to Esther, the owner of the Blackwood Mercantile, who had agreed to lend it in exchange for a stack of cash from Nyla's emergency fund and a promise—unspoken but understood—that no one would ever trace it back to her. The roads had been plowed overnight, the snow pushed into high banks on either side of the highway, and the sky was the pale, washed blue of a winter morning that had decided, against all odds, to be beautiful.
Caleb drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the seat beside him, where Isla lay curled beneath a pile of blankets, her injured ankle elevated on a duffel bag. She had been asleep for most of the journey, her smal
