Page 34 of Found by the Pack
She nods faintly.
I take a step back and offer my arms. “Can I help you out?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
Her body’s light but stiff in my hold as I help her down from the truck. She winces as her boots hit the mud, and I hold her steady.
She starts to lean into the passenger seat of my car and I hesitate. I can’t do this halfway. I need to know she’s alright.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I say, pointing at her. “Please. I mean it.”
“Okay,” she whispers again, curling into the seat.
“Good. Just... try to stay with me.”
I run back through the rain and grab her groceries and her sketchbooks—water-stained but intact—from the passenger side of her truck. When I return, she’s leaning back with her eyes half-lidded, a smear of blood drying on her brow.
I clear my throat. “Hey. You still with me?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes open, land on me, and for a second—just a second—there’s something raw and unguarded between us. I can see the shimmer of tears she’s trying to blink back, the way her breath catches in her throat.
She’s so fucking pretty.
“The rain’s picking up,” I say as I put the bags in the back and close her door. “But I’ll drive slow.”
I ease onto the road, glancing at her every few seconds to make sure she’s upright.
“What happened?” I ask as we pass the first row of beach houses.
She exhales slowly. “There was a squirrel.”
I blink. “A squirrel?”
“Ran across the road. I swerved. Dumb.”
I shake my head. “Not dumb. Just... unfortunate.”
Her voice is soft. Distant. “My head hurts.”
I flick my headlights to high-beam. “I figured. You’ve probably got a mild concussion. I’ll have Boone check you out when we get in. He won’t tell Jake, I promise.”
She nods weakly.
“You said you had worse. Back in Memphis?”
She doesn’t answer. And I don’t push.
Instead, I focus on the road, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the sound of the rain growing louder against the roof. I catch my own reflection in the rearview—glasses slightly fogged, jaw tight.
What the hell are you doing, Shepard?
This is not your lane. She’s new. Just moved here. You don’t even know her. You don’t know anything about her except the fact that she smells like sugar and sweetgrass, and she has stormy eyes that look like they’ve seen hell.
Still. I can’t walk away.
Not from this.
