The truck rolled slower and slower on the gravel shoulder until it finally drifted to a stop. Total silence swallowed everything.
Brock turned the key. Nothing.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He sat back and stared through the windshield into the dark. I checked my phone. No signal.
“Brock.”
“Yeah.”
“Where are we?”
He looked at me, then out at the empty black stretching in every direction.
“About thirty miles from anywhere.”
seven
. . .
BROCK
The text took four attempts to send to our group chat.
The Wilder Bunch
Me
Truck died near Shell Canyon, need a pickup.
Colt
lmaoooo
wait you’re serious?
Do I sound like I’m joking.
Wren
Oh no. Are you and Sienna okay?
We’re fine. Truck’s not.
Colt
it’s the alternator again isn’t it
I fucking told you last month
You gonna come get us or keep texting about the alternator?
Wyatt
I can leave in twenty
No. You’ve got Maisie and you were up at five. Go back to bed.
