Page 73 of Truck Hard

Those liquid brown eyes reflect a familiar emotion—one I’ve seen in my own mirror too many times. That constant vigilance, always scanning for danger, always prepared for fight or flight. The deer shifts its weight slightly, one hoof lifting and lowering in indecision.

My chest tightens with unexpected kinship. This wild creature and I share the same instincts—to stay alive, to protect ourselves from those who would harm us. The deer’s fear is pure, unfiltered by social expectations or complicated emotions. Mine is tangled with shame, with love, with twelve years of surviving Charlie’s violence.

The doe’s tail flicks nervously. A car door slams somewhere in the distance, and we both flinch at the sharp sound. Our eyes lock again, and for a moment, I swear there’s understanding passing between us—two beings balanced on the knife-edge of flight.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, though I’m not sure which one of us I’m trying to reassure.

The crunch of gravel behind me shatters the moment. The deer’s head jerks up, white tail flashing as it bounds across the parking lot and disappears into the scrubby woods beyond.

“Lucky it ran off,” a gravelly voice announces. “Coulda attacked ya.”

I turn to find Gerald Mayer swaying slightly beside me, the unmistakable smell of whiskey clinging to him like cologne. His weathered face is creased with suspicion as he squints in the direction the deer fled.

“I don’t think it was going to hurt me, Jerry,” I say gently.

He snorts, adjusting the frayed baseball cap that hasn’t left his head in at least a decade. “Don’t be fooled. They’re plotting. Got a vendetta against us humans.”

I can’t help but smile. Everyone in Beaver knows Gerald’s story—how years ago he collided with a buck while riding his bicycle down Divide Hill. Drunk no less. The deer died instantly, but Gerald swears its family has been stalking him ever since, waiting for revenge.

“Believe me,” he says, jabbing a finger toward the trees. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of. Mean eyes. Always watching.”

I nod politely, though I can’t help but think as I watch him pedal away on his rusted bike that I understand the deer better than the people in this town. That doe wasn’t planning an attack—she was scanning for escape routes, calculating risks, her entire body tuned to survival.

Just like me.

I know exactly what it feels like to be hunted, to live with your nerves constantly frayed, to startle at sudden movements. The deer and I are kindred spirits, both of us familiar with predators, both of us experts at staying alive.

My heart poundsagainst my ribs as I turn onto my road, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The drive home from Frank’s feels endless today, my mind racing with dread about being forced to see Charlie tonight. Even though it’s supervised, even though it’s at the courthouse where he can’t hurt me, anxiety claws at my throat.

You can do this. You’re stronger now.

The mantra repeats in my head as I round the final corner, but the words die on my lips as my house comes into view. My blood turns to ice.

I see the car first. Way too fancy for this area. Then my eyes catch on him.

Charlie leans casually against my front porch, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like he belongs there. Like he owns this place. Still owns me.

No. No, no, no.

He’s not supposed to be here. The restraining order explicitly forbids him from coming within five hundred feet of my home or place of employment. We’re meant to meet at the courthouse in a few hours, with supervision, with safety measures in place.

My hands shake as I pull into the driveway, mind racing. At last Cam isn’t home from school yet. He’ll be spared this interaction even if I’m not.

Charlie’s lips curve into that familiar predatory smile as I kill the engine—the same smile that used to precede the worst beatings.

“Hannah.” His voice drips with false sweetness, poison wrapped in silk. “Thought we could have a chat before tonight.”

I remain in the car, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and take a deep breath. I debate on driving away rather than getting out. But I’m tired of running, tired of being scared. If I want to make a life for myself here, I can’t run anymore. I have to face him.

I can do this. He does not control me.

I step out of the car, but keep my distance, and try to keep my voice steady. “You’re not supposed to be here.” The words come out weak, trembling. I hate how small I sound. “We’re meeting at the courthouse.”

He shrugs one shoulder, the gesture deceptively casual. “What’s the harm in talking things over first? Just you and me, like old times.”

Old times? Ha! When he’d corner me in our bedroom, or the kitchen, or anywhere I couldn’t escape. When his “talks” left bruises that took weeks to fade.

“Nothing to talk about.” I force steel into my voice even as fear coils in my gut. “You need to leave. Now.”

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