A boy named Noah Briggs heard it from the tree line.
Noah was six years old, though the sharpness in his eyes made him look older and the thinness of his arms made him look younger. His oversized T-shirt hung off one shoulder, and his jeans were cinched at the waist with a length of frayed cord. Dirt streaked his cheeks. Purple bruises bloomed across his forearms in various stages of fading. On his left wrist were three small circular scars, too evenly spaced to be accidental.
He froze at the sound of the crash.
He knew the rules. Stay invisible. Stay quiet. Don’t be seen near the road.
But then he heard something else.
A low, pained groan drifting up from the ditch.
Noah didn’t think in words; he reacted in instincts shaped by survival. He slid down the embankment, dry grass cutting against his shins, pebbles skittering beneath his worn sneakers. The truck’s front end was crushed inward, steam hissing from beneath the hood. The passenger-side window had exploded outward, leaving jagged triangles of glass clinging to the frame like teeth.
Inside, slumped against the steering wheel, was an older woman with silver hair matted dark at the temple. Blood ran down the side of her face, soaking into the collar of her blouse. Her chest rose in shallow, uneven movements.
