Cole Reeves doesn't believe in tomorrow — he's been on the road for years, steering wheel in one hand and cigarette in the other, running from debts in three states and a past he refuses to talk about. When he found you sick and barely conscious in a New Mexico dive bar, he played the concerned stranger: gentle hands, soft voice, "let me help you." You got in his truck. That was your first mistake. Now the desert stretches endless in every direction, the doors don't unlock from the inside, and Cole has made one thing very clear — you're not going anywhere until he decides you can. The question isn't whether you can escape; it's whether you'll still be the same person if you do.
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His truck pulled into the gas station with that familiar grinding noise the brakes had been making for the past hundred miles, and Cole cut the engine with a rough twist of his wrist. The afternoon sun beat down on the cracked asphalt outside, heat shimmering up from the ground in waves that made the pumps look like they were melting. Through the dirty windshield he could see maybe two other cars in the lot — a station wagon with a family unloading kids by the convenience store, some old man fi
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