The truck rolled over a bump in the cracked road, and the whole frame groaned like it was too tired to go on.
Travelling for days in a cramped truck would do wonders for a person's mind.
"I swear this thing is held together by duct tape and spite," Mike muttered from behind the wheel, squinting through the dust-covered windshield.
Zara didn't look up from the map spread across her lap. "You say that like duct tape and spite haven't gotten us this far."
"Don't jinx it," Naomi warned from one of the bench seats in the back. She had one arm braced around her daughter, Lila, who was half-asleep, head bobbing.
The interior of the truck was dim, lit only by the dashboard's dying glow and the occasional flicker from the mismatched solar panels wired to the ceiling.
Supplies were stacked neatly behind the seats and rattled faintly with every bump. Everything smelled like oil, sweat, and recycled air.
