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“You can’t be serious.”

She meets my gaze, and for once, there’s no sass in her expression, only exhaustion.

“It’s eight miles to Dawson,” she shrugs. “Last couple are downhill.”

“And the first six are uphill. Winding. Pitch-black,” I shoot back. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s going to get cold. Real cold. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like freezing my ass off in a Beamer hoping someone comes down this God-forsaken road.”

My gut twists. She’s right, but the thought of trekking that distance in the dark with only our phones for light makes my skin crawl.

“Try Sam again,” I mutter. “Or Raul. Someone has to answer, eventually.”

“I already did. Raul, Nora, Monica, everyone we know and it’s all one big nada.” She sighs and glances away, folding her arms. When she continues her voice is low. “We’re on our own.”

Before I can formulate a response, twin beams of light crest the turn, cutting through the dark. A deep rumble follows, low and guttural. I take a step back, squinting through the glare. The truck is moving fast, barreling toward the final bend in the road. Whoever that is—if they don’t slow down, they’re going to hit the downed tree.

“Cross your fingers,” Erica says, perking up.

“They’re going to wreck—move back,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.

The car slows as its headlights bounce off the asphalt. Then I see the truck’s profile—and my stomach drops. No. It can’t be. Sleek metallic gray. Too clean for these roads. Built tall and wide, like it has no concept of subtlety.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging my palm across my face.

“What?” Erica asks, pulling her arm free now that the vehicle stopped.

“It’s Ray,” I groan.

“No way! Ray?” she exclaims, her face lighting up.

“Chill, will you? He’s the last person I want to see,” I snap.

“Shut up, Red,” she says, stepping forward. “I’ll take anyone who can help.”

Ray pulls up beside us with a gentle scrunch of tires on gravel. The engine growls low before dying and then the door creaks open.

“Evening, ladies,” he says.

Confident, casual. Like this is just a normal Friday night run-in. His heavy boots clop as he walks up. He stops in front of the downed tree. He looks it over like he’s assessing a flat tire.

“Talk about bad luck,” he mutters, peering at Erica’s car with a low whistle. “Oof. Doesn’t look like you’ve got a towbar, huh?”

“No,” Erica says with a sigh. “She’s just a pretty face.”

“All right,” he says, swinging his arms and rolling his head. “Stand back.”

He cracks his knuckles and heads toward the massive tree trunk lying across the asphalt.

“You’re not seriously—” I say.

“Back,” he repeats, shaking his head.

We move without more arguing, stepping out of his way as he crouches and puts his palms against the gnarled roots and splintered bark. This is ridiculous. No one’s that strong. He’s showing off, and there’s no way he’s moving that monster by himself.

With a grunt, he grips the edge of the trunk and pulls. At first, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the dead tree shifts, scraping against the pavement with a horrible groan. Ray leans in, muscles straining beneath the thin stretch of his black t-shirt. Veins pulse like live wires under his skin.

He has his jaw clenched and eyes locked on the log like he’s challenging it to defy him. I stand frozen. Watching in sheer disbelief.