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Chapter 2: 

The Drive Home

The truck took to the highway like it belonged there. A battered blue ’52 F-1, rebuilt just enough to trust, carrying the quiet weight of hands that had held the wheel long before mine. The engine was new to me, but I still heard the old sounds—ghost notes left behind by worn gaskets, replaced valves, memories of breakdowns fused into the machine’s voice. I listened for what didn’t want to be heard yet.

Rain pressed down hard, flattening the world beyond the hood into streaks of light and shadow. The wipers kept time, slicing the water into manageable fragments. Everything else faded.

Cassandra sat in the passenger seat, knees angled toward the glove compartment, hands folded loosely in her lap. She leaned her head against the window, breath fogging the glass. The instrument panel lit her face from below, softening the sharp lines, catching the pale scar along her jaw she never talked about. Her eyes kept moving, tracking the dark beyond the windshield even when she seemed still.

Night driving narrowed the road into a tunnel. White lines. Reflectors. Distance measured in seconds. I passed one exit without slowing. Then another.

“You hungry?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Later.”

The next exit came up fast—bright, easy, promising gas and food. I eased past it without comment. The rain thickened, drumming harder on the roof.

“You missed it,” she said.

“Did I?”

She watched the road again. “I like the drive through the countryside. The winding parts. Helps after a mission.”

“I know.”

That was why I stayed off the interstate, even when the GPS chirped and recalculated. The darker roads asked for attention. They gave something back.

We drove on. Old barns hunched along the roadside like broken hands. A peeling billboard advertised a water park that had closed before either of us was born. The silence between us grew dense, filled by the truck’s low voice rising and falling, always on the edge of saying too much.

“When are you going to start the GPS?” Cassandra asked.

I powered it on and set it between us. The screen flared bright, immediately suggesting a faster route. She smiled faintly.

“It isn’t a cardinal sin to use GPS.”

I turned the brightness down until it was barely there. “Habit.”

She accepted that. Didn’t push. Just watched.

The rain shifted, coming sideways now. Visibility collapsed to reflectors and the faint suggestion of road. Then the engine coughed.

Once. Then again.

I eased off the gas, listening, feeling the vibration travel up through the wheel. Cassandra’s hand tightened briefly on the door handle.

“There’s a place up ahead,” I said. “We’ll stop. Let this pass.”

She nodded.

The diner announced itself with a hand-painted sign nailed to a pole: BESSIE’S—OPEN LATE. We pulled under the tin awning as the engine ticked itself quiet.

Inside, the air was thick with coffee and old grease. Red vinyl booths. A checkered floor worn smooth by years of boots. A handful of people who didn’t look up.

We took a booth by the window. I sat with my back to the wall.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked.

“Black,” Cassandra said.

“Same.”

Steam rose between us.

“You always pick places like this,” Cassandra said.

“Like what?”

“Where nobody asks.”

“People care,” I said. “Just not about us.”

She watched me over the rim of her mug.

“Ward.”

The name landed heavier than it should have.

Ward Dane

The one that fit the paperwork. The one that opened doors without asking what came next.

Not the name I was born with.

That one stayed buried where it belonged.

The bell over the door rang.

“Jericho?”

The sound cut clean through the room.

I looked up.

She stood just inside, rain-dark hair pulled back, eyes fixed on me like she’d never lost track.

“That’s not my name,” I said.

She smiled, already turning away. “My mistake.”

Her gaze flicked once to Cassandra, then back to me.

“Have a good evening,” she said. “On your honeymoon.”

And she was gone.

The bell fell silent.

Cassandra stirred her coffee slowly.

“Honeymoon,” she said.

“People make assumptions.”

“Some do.”

The rain eased. I paid at the counter. Cash. No receipt.

Outside, the truck started on the first turn, idled rough, then settled. We pulled back onto the road without looking back.

Whatever had followed me in had stayed behind.

For now.