The sun had fully risen by the time we hit the main highway.
I was driving. Caleb was in the passenger seat, drifting in and out of consciousness. He had put on some spare clothes from the backseat—an old flannel shirt and jeans that hung loosely on his frame. He looked pale, but the wound on his side was closed, leaving behind a jagged, silvery scar.
"We need to ditch the truck," Caleb murmured, his eyes closed.
"Why?" I asked, glancing at the rearview mirror. "It’s fast. It’s tough."
"It’s a beacon," Caleb rasped. "Every Wolf in the state knows my truck. Vanessa will have APBs out for the license plate by noon. We need something... invisible."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Leaving the truck meant leaving the last piece of our old life behind.
"Okay," I said. "I have an i
