Her eyes met mine for a second, then she pressed her lips together and looked back down at the map.
“Got it,” I said, turning my attention back to the road.
Thirty Three
I’m Fine -Finn
“Shit.”
The road ahead was impassable. Cars were three deep across every lane, some resting atop others at angles that defied explanation, twisted metal sprawled from barrier to barrier. Two burned-out shells sat in the middle, blackened to the frame. Shattered glass covered every surface, catching the light like expensive jewels carelessly discarded.
No lane. No shoulder. No way through.
I let the vehicle idle, scanning anyway, hoping for an escape.
There wasn’t one.
“Okay,” Fiona said from the backseat, her voice strained. “We can go around, right? Find another—”
“No,” I cut her off. “We’re not forcing that mess. One wheel on the wrong piece of metal and we’re stuck in the middle with no options.”
“We’ll backtrack,” I decided. “Two miles, maybe less. There was an exit before the wreckage. We’ll take local roads, loop around this, and pick the highway back up further north.”
Lily leaned forward between the seats. “We’re going back?”
“Two miles,” I repeated. “It’s not a discussion.”
And nobody made it one.
I swung the Suburban in a wide arc, the suspension groaning at the radius, and pointed us back the way we’d come.
I hated backtracking.
But it beat the alternative. It always did.
“We need fuel,” I said, my eyes flicking to the gauge before returning to the road. “We’ll siphon something once we’re clear.”
Libby already had the hose out of the bag, turning it over in her hands. “Already ahead of you,” she said.
* * *
Not far off the exit ramp, we found a cluster of abandoned cars—a small knot of vehicles that had pulled over with some intention, only to have that intention permanently interrupted. I kept the Suburban running, positioned it facing the road, and worked quickly and efficiently. The hose was in, and gas flowed into the spare container within two minutes. The sharp, chemical smell of fuel cut through the cold air.
“Tell me you’ve done this before,” Fiona muttered, watching from the window.
“A few times,” I said, not looking up.
“Of course you have,” Fiona replied.
Once the tank was full, we continued.
Off the highway, the lanes narrowed, the asphalt deteriorated, and the city peeled away behind us—concrete gave way to commercial, then residential, then a treeline, with the occasional dark house set back from the road, its windows blank.
Libby unfolded the map across her lap, her hands steadier than they had any right to be, given the past several hours.
“Stay east,” she said, her finger tracing a route I couldn’t clearly see. “We should be able to reconnect with the highway further up.”
“Should,” I echoed.
