I set a brutal pace. I have to. The sun is rising, burning off the mist, exposing us. Every minute we spend in the open is a roll of the dice.
Cassie doesn’t complain. She falls behind on the climbs, her breath tearing in ragged gasps, but she catches up on the flats. She limps, favoring the wrapped ankle, but she keeps moving.
Resilience.
It’s the one thing you can’t train. You either have it, or you break.
She has it.
Around 0800, we hit the edge of the woods. The trees thin out. Fences appear. Barbed wire marking property lines.
I hold up a fist. Stop.
Cassie freezes. She’s learning.
I crouch behind a laurel bush. Use the binoculars.
Below us, a valley opens up. Farmland. Pastures. A ribbon of asphalt—Route 600, maybe.
“What do you see?” she whispers, crawling up beside me.
“Civilization.”
I scan the structures. A farmhouse half a mile down. Red brick. Silo. A gravel driveway with a sedan parked near the house.
Too close to the main road. Too much visibility.
I scan left.
A smaller property. A double-wide trailer set back against the woods. A shed. And parked under a lean-to.
“Jackpot,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Ten o’clock. The trailer.”
She takes the binoculars. “I see a rusted pickup truck.”
“1980s Chevy. No computer. No GPS. Easy to wire.”
“It looks dead.”
“It has tires. That’s enough.”
“What about the people who live there?”
“What about them?”
“They’re—people. Probably poor if they’re living in a trailer. We’re going to steal their truck?”
“Would you prefer to ask them for a ride?”
“No. I just …” She lowers the binoculars. “It feels different than the rest stop. That was corporate. This feels—personal.”
“Survival is personal.” I take the glasses back. “The house looks quiet. No smoke from the chimney. No dog in the yard.”
“How do you know?”
