Neon flashes across the window.
Red.
Blue.
Gold.
It burns against my eyes.
I sit up too fast, the seatbelt catching me, pressing into my chest and throat until I gasp.
“Easy,” he says, already leaning over, his hand brushing mine as he unclips it. “You okay?”
But I’m not listening.
Because I’m staring out the window.
And my brain is trying to catch up with what I’m seeing.
Lights.
Endless lights.
Crowds.
Movement.
Energy.
“Vegas?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
I turn to him, heart suddenly racing.
“Benji, why are we in Vegas?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just opens the door and steps out like this is normal.
Like this makes sense.
Like we didn’t just drive halfway across the country without me realizing it.
“Because,” he says, rounding the front of the truck, his voice rougher now, edged with something I can’t quite name, “three and a half years ago, someone fucked up.”
My stomach drops.
“And we’re here to fix it.”
The world tilts.
Just a little.
Enough to make me feel unsteady.
He opens my door.
Holds out his hand.
