He lifted his head when he saw me. His eyes took me in slowly and steadily, not judgmental or prying, just present.
“Morning,” he said. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. He nodded once, a small gesture of understanding. “Let’s get you home.”
Six
Wyatt
As I waited, the sun was already high over the rooftops, and the heat was already rising off the pavement in slow, shimmering waves. August in the city had a way of baking everything early in the day, locking the warmth in until long after sunset.
It wasn’t like the foothills, where mornings stayed cool, and the heat came at noon. Here, warmth came from every direction: concrete radiating up, humidity pressing sideways, millions of bodies moving through the same space.
She approached in slow, deliberate steps, meaning every part of her body hurt. Up close, I could see everything the sunglasses tried to hide: shadows under her eyes, faint red at the corners, lips pressed too tight, skin pale. She was holding herself together with sheer willpower, and that willpower was threadbare.
She climbed in without another word.
I shut the door carefully, like the noise might hurt her, then rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel.
“Have you eaten anything?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Drink some water.” I pointed at the bottle, and she looked at me.
She reached for the unopened bottle in the console. When she unscrewed the cap, her fingers trembled, just slightly, but enough that something tight lodged itself in my chest. She took a small sip, swallowing carefully, each movement slow like she had to remind her body how to function.
There was a coffee place on the corner with a drive-through; the drive wouldn’t be so bad if we were both caffeinated. With coffee and bagels in our possession, I eased the truck back into traffic.
She stared straight ahead. Not blinking much. Not really seeing anything, either. Ten full minutes passed before she spoke. “You found him,” she said quietly.
“Yes.” My grip tightened on the wheel.
“What was it like?” Her question was a small reach for something she could hold on to.
“He was in his chair,” I said softly. “It looked like he’d just nodded off. It was peaceful.”
A soft, broken sound escaped her. She pressed a hand over her mouth and nodded, once, hard, like she had to physically keep the reaction from spilling out.
“He didn’t call me,” she whispered.
“He never wanted to bother people.”
She laughed, a hollow sound, sharp and brittle. “He raised me when nobody else wanted me. There was no way he could’ve bothered me once.” Her voice cracked. She stared out the windshield, jaw tight, her breath unsteady.
“I should’ve called more,” she said, voice fraying. “I should’ve checked on him. I should’ve…”
I reached across the centre console and put my hand on hers. “People don’t get to choose the time they go,” I said. “And Ray wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself.”
She flinched at his name. Then she leaned her head back slowly, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, her breath shaky.
Her phone buzzed, too loud in the quiet cab. She stiffened immediately. I glanced sideways.
“Do you need to answer that?” I asked.
“No.”
“You can turn it off. Nobody needs access to you,” I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly feeling extra protective of this woman, but here we were. She hesitated. Then shut the ringer off. Her hands trembled again.
“You’re safe,” I said quietly, not pushing. “Whoever it is can wait.”
