I help Max climb into the backseat, wincing at the mud and debris he brings with him. Lila doesn't seem to mind, simply spreading an old flannel blanket across the seat. The dog turns in three tight circles before settling down with a heavy sigh.
“Thank you.” I gesture vaguely at the truck, at Max, at the whole unexpected situation.
“Don't thank me yet,” she warns, starting the engine. “We have to find a pet-friendly motel in the middle of nowhere, and a vet to take a look at that cut on him.”
As we pull away from the devastation, I watch in the side mirror as emergency vehicles continue their work around the ruined farmhouse. Max whimpers softly from the back seat, his eyes fixed on the shrinking remnants of his former home.
“It's okay,” I say, turning to look at him. “Sometimes starting over isn't so bad.”
Lila gives me a sidelong glance but says nothing as she navigates the muddy road back to the highway. The rain has picked up again, fat drops splattering against the windshield in an irregular rhythm.
“There's a town about thirty miles east,” she says, checking the GPS. “Oakridge. Small, but it should have what we need.”
Max lets out a soft whine from the backseat, then settles into a more comfortable position on the blanket. Within minutes, a gentle rumbling sound fills the truck—a surprisingly loud snore for a dog his size.
I glance back at him, fascinated by how quickly he's managed to fall asleep after everything he's been through. “He's snoring,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him. The snoring grows louder, punctuated by little whimpers that make my chest tighten. I've never felt responsible for another living thing before.
“You good?” Lila asks, breaking the silence between us.
“I’m processing,” I say after a long moment.
“Which part?”
“All of it,” I admit. “I’ve seen damage before, but not like that.”
I stare at the rain-streaked windshield, the wipers creating a rhythm that matches Max's increasingly thunderous snores from the backseat. Each rumbling exhale sounds almost comically loud for a dog his size.
“That’s the part photos in a presentation don’t teach,” Lila says quietly, her focus fixed on the road ahead. “The human cost. What it’s like to stand in what used to be someone’s kitchen, or bedroom, or nursery, and it’s just gone. Today, you saw the other side of it. The best-case scenario. They’re not always that lucky.”
“Have you…”
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I was first on scene after an F4 hit a small community in western Kansas. The ambulance was forty minutes out. There was this old man pinned under a support beam…” She swallows. “Sometimes all you can do is hold someone’s hand and tell them it’s okay to let go.”
“How do you do it? Keep going back after seeing things like that?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her attention stays on the rain-slick road. When she finally speaks, her tone is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Because the alternative is worse,” she says. “Because every warning that gets people to shelter in time means one less hand I have to hold while they die.”
“Proving my models can help with that,” I offer.
Lila nods, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “That's why, despite all your stuffiness, I agreed to this partnership.”
I smile at that, recognizing the teasing for what it is—her way of pulling us back from the edge of too much vulnerability.
“I'm not stuffy,” I protest mildly.
She shoots me a look that’s equal parts amusement and disbelief.
“You’re right,” I admit with a quiet laugh. “I’m incredibly stuffy. Lucas likes to remind me that I once organized my bookshelf by the Dewey Decimal System. For fun.”
Lila’s laughter bursts through the truck cab, bright and genuine and completely unrestrained. I’ve heard her laugh before—short little huffs of amusement when she’s teasing me, low chuckles when Lucas said something ridiculous—but not like this. This is different. Full-bodied. Warm. Real.
And God, it does something catastrophic to me.
The sound fills the small space between us. I catch myself staring at her before I can stop it.
The way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she tips her head back when she laughs hard enough. The flash of teeth behind a grin that looks entirely too good aimed in my direction.
