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At least she could while away the time trying to unscramble her brain. What’s your normal routine then? Maybe dredging up what she could recall would jog loose what she couldn’t. Thankfully, those details were still reachable.

On a regular day, she’d arrive at 6:00 a.m., inspect the truck, load the mini fridge, and queue up a new audiobook on her phone.

She’d go over the cargo details with Cliff, confirm departure and arrival times, while he took messages off the computer or answering machine that would hopefully lead to more jobs so she could give him the raise he’d been hounding her for.

Mostly she’d be scouring the broker sites to secure a load for the trip back home.

Every moment her truck was empty was a dollar she wasn’t earning.

The volcano would have put the kibosh on regular business, though.

She’d probably been working on spread ing her net, looking for work that would keep her out of the area until the eruption danger was over, examining load sites for attractive delivery locations.

She imagined the throb of the engine when she fired it up that morning.

Thrilling, no doubt, like it always was.

She’d have picked up her cargo early since she intended to drive out and not return until the all clear was given.

She had no doubt plotted where she’d stay overnight.

The cleanest truck stops with showers and security were a priority so she could sleep in her rig undisturbed, hopefully.

Didn’t always work. A single woman of small stature attracted plenty of unwanted attention from opportunistic thieves and even lonely truckers.

The trip two months ago...

She shivered. Why wouldn’t that memory vanish from her mind along with whatever else she’d forgotten?

Try again. Remember , Kit.

She must have stopped for a hitchhiker. Not her regular practice, but if it had been a woman and a baby?

Begging for a ride in a volcano dead zone?

Her brain waves were a hopeless tangle. She sat morosely and closed her eyes to try to rest her aching skull.

While it would have been a relief to sink into sleep, she merely rested as best she could, listening for sounds of Cullen’s return.

When her worry made it impossible to lie still any longer, she removed the antique travel clock from its velcroed spot on the shelf next to her mattress and checked the time. Impeccably precise, as was the father who’d given it to her. Seven fifteen. Cullen had been gone for hours.

The baby slept, arms flung wide as if nothing in the world could hurt her.

Risking a peek out the window with her flashlight, she saw nothing but a swirl of gray as the wind lifted the ash blanket and hurled it airborne.

She squeezed a couple more water bottles into the duffel bag.

Removing the money would allow for more supplies, but she couldn’t see leaving it behind in her crumpled truck. Cullen could get it to the cops.

The baby remained quiet, so Kit picked up the spilled magazines and returned them to the shelves and swept the broken bits of glass into a plastic dustpan. Ridiculous, no doubt, but she felt better for it.

The travel clock read seven forty-five. She eased around the mattress and pressed her face to the grimy window. How much longer would they be stuck here? What if they ran out of bottles and diapers? Food? What if Cullen fell or became overwhelmed by fumes? What if no one came?

What if someone did?

A sizzle of lightning lit up the sodden meadow and the rocks beyond.

A plume of something drifted through the air.

Another belch of ash from Mount Ember. Cullen came into view, a pale shadow.

Her heart sped up, relieved, until she realized he was moving fast, jogging toward the rig, slipping and skidding in spurts, sinking shin-deep into the debris before yanking himself free.

She flung the door open for him and he scrambled in, wet rivulets of muck dripping from the raincoat.

“What’s wrong?”

He peeled off the jacket and thrust it at her. “We gotta bolt for my truck. Put this on. You can shelter Tot inside, keep her dry as best you can.”

She was summoning a question as he jerked a look around.

“You packed. Good. I’ll carry the duffel.” He stopped his rapid-fire commands when she seized his wrist.

“I’m not leaving my rig.”

“No choice.”

“I—”

He cut off her answer by taking her elbow and propelling her to the driver’s side window. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, they stared through the fractured glass.

“I don’t see anything,” she whispered, unsure why she spoke in a hushed tone.

“Watch.” His murmur tickled her ear, the chill of his cold cheek against hers prickling her skin. Her searching gaze found only an impenetrable sprawl of velvet night.

He pressed one wide finger to the window glass. “There.”

Above them, where a sliver of road was visible before it became lost by the steep slopes of Mount Ember, two gold pinpricks trailed down the mountain, flickering in and out of view as the terrain rose and fell.

Her breath caught. Rescue.

“Headlights,” he confirmed. “Saw them during my trek. Never did get a signal either.”

They were lost, out of contact with the outside world.

But maybe not. “It’s probably the police or the National Guard.

” She pressed an eager palm to the window.

They’d be rescued. She could call in a desperate favor and get her truck towed.

The baby would be all right. The National Guard or park service could find the missing mother.

“I don’t think so, Kit.”

They stared as the vehicle moved steadily down the mountain, no strobing lights yet, but maybe that would happen shortly. She could feel the tension in the muscled wall of his chest pressed against her shoulder.

Again they sank into silence, gazes drawn to the appearing and disappearing headlights. They caught sight of them again on a short stretch of road before the vehicle sank out of view.

“He’s probably two miles from here before the road takes the plunge. No emergency lights, not an official vehicle.”

The baby stirred on the mattress, whimpered.

One more time the car appeared, moving toward them at an unhurried pace. As they watched, the headlights flicked off, the moonlight catching the darkened vehicle for the briefest of moments until the clouds sealed out the light again.

Her stomach contracted, her fantasies of rescue popping like soap bubbles. There was no good reason why someone would want to approach without being seen. Only bad ones.

“Not cops.” Cullen looped the duffel strap over his shoulder. In a fog, she shrugged into the wet jacket, grabbed the teddy bear and travel alarm clock, and stowed them in her pockets before she scooped Tot up. The baby protested being zipped against Kit’s chest inside the rubberized raincoat.

Cullen turned off the flashlight and shoved it in his back pocket. Wordlessly, he led her through the dark belly of her truck to the passenger side.

Too fast.

It was all happening too fast.

She followed, the baby an alien weight pressed against her. Each step was torture. How could she leave her rig? Her everything?

At the door, he climbed out, standing below, arm extended to help her.

She looked at him, burdened like a pack mule. Was she really going to do this? Run into the night with a stranger and a baby with a volcano threatening to bury them alive?

But the vehicle with no lights, the bullet holes, the blood...

With her ruined truck behind her, she clung to Cullen’s hand and stepped down into the darkness.