She was alive.
Noah scrambled toward the broken window and hesitated only a second before pulling himself up, careful but quick. A shard of glass sliced across his palm as he climbed through, but he didn’t cry out. Pain was temporary. Noise was dangerous.
The inside of the cab smelled like gasoline and copper and heat. The woman’s eyes fluttered weakly but did not focus. Blood pulsed slowly from a deep cut along her scalp.
He searched the floor frantically and found a faded flannel rag near the passenger seat, stiff with old oil stains but thick enough to press against a wound. He climbed over the console, knees crunching on shattered glass, and pressed the rag firmly against her temple with both trembling hands.
“Please don’t go to sleep,” he whispered, voice hoarse from thirst. “You gotta stay awake.”
Her eyelids twitched. Then slowly, painfully, they opened.
“Well,” she murmured faintly, her Southern accent soft but steady beneath the weakness, “you’re not an angel, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” Noah said, pushing harder as blood soaked into the cloth and warmed his fingers. “Just Noah.”
“I’m Evelyn Carter,” she breathed. Even in shock, her gaze sharpened slightly as it traveled down to his arms. She saw the bruises. She saw the burns. Something in her expression shifted from confusion to understanding. “Who did that to you, baby?”
He stiffened automatically. His eyes flicked toward the road.
