I take the toolbox and head downstairs.
The parking lot is colder now. Darker. Empty except for a few cars and Molly’s pickup sitting under the light like it’s waiting. I walk to it and crouch beside the front tire.
My breath fogs and lingers in the chill night air.
By the time I'm opening my toolbox, the shaking has stopped. That's the worst part — how easy it is once the decision's made.
Because I don’t have to pretend that I’m anything other than who I really am: a desperate man doing whatever it takes to keep his little sister safe.
I reach into the toolbox and take out a wrench. Then I lower myself onto the pavement, slide under her truck, and stare up at the underbelly, my eyes running over pipes and bolts.
Wrench in hand, heart in my throat, the last good part of me whispers: don’t.
I whisper back, so quiet no one but me can hear it.
“I have to.”
Chapter Nine
Molly
My alarm goes off at six-thirty, but I’m already awake, sprawled on my side in the narrow slice of bed that never seems to fit my whole body at once, mind running its usual pre-test suicide drill. The thing about tests — real tests, the kind that decide whether you make it another semester or get sucked back to square zero — they don’t just keep you up late, they colonize your dreams. I’d spent the night drifting in and out of a nightmare where I opened the scantron and the bubbles were filled with gnashing teeth instead of numbers.
I roll out of bed, feet hitting the floor hard, and the ache in my shoulders reminds me I worked yesterday in addition to studying until my eyes felt ready to fall out of their sockets. The cafe I studied in was peaceful, sure, even with Evan sitting across from me, acting like the world’s most distracting and stupidly handsome study guide, but before that, the Noble Fir was loud, the Devils were louder, and I’m pretty sure Mayhem tried to tip me with a scratch-off lottery ticket and a cigarette lighter shaped like a mermaid.
Accounting test at eight. In-person at the Ironwood Falls Community College. No makeup, no patience, no mercy.
I drag my ass into the bathroom and force my hair into a messy bun, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror like I’m trying to intimidate my reflection.
“Don’t screw this up,” I tell her.
She looks tired. Determined. Mean enough to survive.
Good.
I yank on jeans, a clean shirt, and my battered hoodie. Shove my notebook and pencil case into my backpack. Keys, wallet, phone—check, check, check. I snatch an energy bar off the counter, take one bite, decide my stomach hates me, and toss it back.
I check the clock. 7:18. I’ve got forty-two minutes to make it across town to the community college, find parking, and maybe hyperventilate in a bathroom stall before the test starts at eight sharp. The professor is a fossil who considers punctuality a moral imperative and once locked a girl out for being fifteen seconds late.
I shoulder my pack, stomp down the stairs in boots that weren’t designed for running but might as well get used to it, and blow past the building’s “quiet hours” sign. The hallway smells like old carpet and someone’s attempt at cinnamon air freshener. It’s too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you’ve missed the rapture and everyone else has already checked out.
The parking lot is wet from last night’s drizzle; the air cold enough to bite. My truck sits where it always sits — big, dependable, mine.
I hit the key fob. The lights blink.
“Come on,” I mutter, and jog across the lot, nearly slipping on the slick blacktop. Every second is a countdown.
I climb in. The seat’s damp; the windows are streaked with condensation and the ghosts of old band stickers. I shove the key in and twist.
Nothing.
Not even a sad little whine. Just… dead silence.
I blink, then try again — harder this time, as if the truck might sense my urgency and rise to meet it.
The dashboard flickers. The radio coughs, then dies. But the engine doesn’t even try to turn over.
“No,” I say, as if I can will it into existence. “No. Not today, you piece of —”
