Myra
The twenty-minute drive back to Mount Tabor felt like twenty hours.
The truck cab, which had felt so warm and safe on the way down the mountain, now felt like a cage. Tony drove with his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might crack. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other gripped mine, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles in a steady rhythm that was the only thing keeping me from vibrating out of my skin.
I stared out the window at the passing pines, but I didn't see them. I saw a fifteen-year-old version of myself standing in a cold, empty kitchen, watching a suitcase being zipped shut. I saw the taillights of a car disappearing toward Rutberg.
"She has no right," I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "She doesn't get to just... show up."
"She do
