The engine coughed under Mike's touch—another sharp metallic wheeze that made him grunt and duck further under the lifted hood. Tools clanked against metal, muffled by the calm that had settled over the clearing. The sky above was muted lavender, neither day nor night, bathed in a perpetual hush that wasn't silence but peace.
Behind the truck, everyone else had gathered. Blankets and tarps were spread out across the ground in a makeshift camp. Cans of food—heated over a salvaged heating unit powered by cobbled-together battery lines—had been emptied and cleaned. Plates scraped clean. Bellies full.
Except for Zara.
She sat on the edge of the open truck bed, legs drawn in close, a half-eaten plate of canned chicken stew resting on her knees. She kept glancing at the figure curled beside her. Leo, bundled in a small pile of blankets, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythms. Peaceful. Unmoving.
Winter leaned against the tailgate, watching her watch Leo.
