“There,” Dustin said. He pointed south. “See how it's backing up?”
Greg saw. Cars were bunching together where the lanes merged, brake lights flickering in a chain reaction as drivers jockeyed for position.
“I need to get closer,” Dustin said, sliding off the tailgate.
“Dustin—”
Dustin ignored Greg's calling. He crossed the frontage road and moved down the embankment toward the highway shoulder.
Greg followed.
Traffic roared past five feet away, a wall of noise and hot exhaust that made Greg's wholebody tense. The ground trembled beneath his feet with every passing truck and grit stung his face.
It was… unpleasant.
Unsettlingly so.
This was where humans existed. Not the quiet threshold Greg was trained for. Not the soft final breath, the gentle loosening of the soul. This was the loud, grinding, dangerous middle. The part where everything moved too fast and no one saw what was coming.
At 4:30, Greg felt a subtle pull in his chest. Jessica Torres was close. Somewhere in the river of metal and glass flowing along the interstate.
Greg scanned the traffic. The pull sharpened as a silver sedan moved through the interchange. It was small and slightly dented on the rear bumper. He couldn't see the driver through the glare on the windshield, but he didn't need to. The tug in his chest was a compass needle swinging toward true north.
“That one,” he said without meaning to.
Dustin's binoculars swung to follow his gaze. “I see her.”
The sedan merged. Slowed. Moved with the flow.
4:38.
Nine minutes.
The traffic was thickening faster now. Brake lights cascaded in waves. The interchange was a clot of vehicles jockeying for position, some cutting in at the last second, others riding too close to the car in front.
“There's a truck,” Dustin said. His voice had gone flat and focused, stripped of everything casual. “There, two cars behind her. He's riding way too close.”
Greg watched the truck. It was massive, and it was tailgating, lurching forward in bursts as traffic stuttered.
4:41.
“If that truck brakes too late,” Dustin muttered, tracking through the binoculars, “and the cars in front of her stack up?—”
He didn't finish the sentence. He was already moving down the shoulder.
“Dustin.” Greg went after him. “You can't get on the highway.”
“I'm not getting on the highway. I'm getting close to the highway.”
“Well, don't do that!”
Dustin ignored him. He was striding along the shoulder, eyes locked on the road. Greg stumbled after him, the roar of passing vehicles so loud he could feel it in his jaw.
4:44.
Three minutes.
“Come on,” Dustin muttered. He wasn't talking to Greg. He was talking to the sedan. “Change lanes. Take the exit. Do something.”
