She can hear the static in her bones as it gets closer.
“This thing,” he says, “the monster you say is after you-”
“It only travels at night,” she tells him. “In the light I have a chance.”
The pick-up truck is real old, a lot like its driver, and worn down; paint chipped, chrome dulled, seat leather smooth and cracked. There’s a stack of old yellowed newsprint in the foot well on the passenger side, a litter of this and that scattered here and there on what might once have been a square of carpet.
The engine grumbles and strains when he turns the key in the ignition. The whole pick-up shaking to its core as he struggles the wheel around, points the vehicle’s nose towards the rising sun.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “She’ll get going right enough.”
Maybe she’s convinced.
“Settle in,” he says. “You can sleep while I drive.”