Chapter 2

Bree's smile reached me before her answer did. She had already tied back her hair, and the sight of it made my fingers close harder over the keys.

"Give me ten minutes."

My husband glanced toward the garage. Bree stopped beside him, one hand still on the rail, waiting for somebody to decide whether her good day had started.

I took the keys and walked past them. I raised the garage door, then pulled the gray cover from the hood.

Dean came in behind me. He reached for the driver's door, but I opened it first.

The bench seat sat close to the wheel. I pulled the adjustment bar and pushed with my hip. Nothing moved. Rust ringed the square nut at the end of the track.

Dean crouched and opened the case he kept in the garage. He tried one socket, then another. Each slipped around the old square edges without catching. Bree stood near the workbench, her boots planted carefully together.

"I'll bring something from the shop."

"You won't need to."

I crossed to the narrow cabinet beside the freezer. The bottom drawer stuck halfway, as it always had. I lifted it before pulling, and the wood released with a dry knock.

My father's wrench lay beneath two shop rags, its handle worn smooth. I carried it back without wiping it.

The open end settled over the nut with no play. I braced one knee against the running board and pulled. For a moment, the wrench held all my weight. Then the rust cracked, and the nut turned.

Dean reached to steady me. I shifted away and worked the nut loose. The seat slid back with a scrape.

I set the wrench on the running board. It had left a rusty line across my palm, crossing the old crescent scar.

"There," Dean said. "That's all it needed."

He meant the seat. He might have meant me.

Bree moved toward the passenger side, then stopped. Her fingers rested on the door handle without lifting it. I looked at her across the cab, and she let her hand fall.

I put my left boot on the running board. My right hand caught the door frame. The vinyl gave a small sigh when I lowered myself onto the bench.

The cab was smaller than memory had kept it. Sunlight laid the garage door's square shadows across the hood.

I reached for the steering wheel.

My palm touched the worn ridge at the top, and I wiped it at once against my jeans. The motion came too fast to hide. Dean looked down at the wrench. Bree looked at me.

I tried again. This time I wrapped both hands around the wheel. My throat locked before I could draw a full breath, and my elbows stayed stiff as if the truck had already begun to move.

Twenty-six years had passed since I had driven it beyond this garage. The closed door filled the windshield, white and near.

The key ring pressed into my thigh through my pocket. I took it out and found the truck key by touch. Its teeth faced the steering column.

Dean stepped aside to give me room. Bree's hopeful breath sounded louder than his boots on the concrete.

I held the key beside the slot until the metal warmed between my fingers. Then I climbed down, crossed the garage, and placed it back on the hook.