Page 111 of What Remains

They watched until dust settled in the tire tracks, until the engine faded into the trees, until the ranch returned to silence.

Chapter 26

Home

The ranch dwindled in the rearview mirror, swallowed by dust and shrinking trees until it vanished completely.

Seth, however, kept looking, as if a prolonged gaze might grant him one last glimpse, one final chance to reconsider.

The map in his pocket felt like a poor imitation of the one he'd pressed into Josie's hands. He'd left more than just a route with her. The sharp, unwelcome thought surfaced as the miles stretched between them: he'd left the part of himself he'd just rediscovered, a part he could never reclaim. It was simply... gone.

Yet, he kept driving.

Jay's Suburban, laden to the roof with supplies, led the way, with Seth following a few car lengths behind in his own SUV. The familiar radio chatter that had filled their days on the road was, for the first time since the trip silent. There wasn't much left to say.

Small towns drifted past in various states of decay—abandoned gas stations with ripped-open pumps, rusting pickups half-swallowed by weeds, storefront windows shattered months ago and never mended. Every so often, the dead lurched onto the asphalt, forcing them to slow and weave around the stumbling figures before continuing west.

His hands rested at ten and two on the steering wheel, steady out of habit, but his mind refused to stay on the road. It kept dragging him back to the porch—to Josie, clutching his pocketknife against her chest as if it might anchor her. He replayed the way she'd fought not to cry, chin lifted, voice even, until her composure finally cracked at the very end.

His thumb scraped over the worn leather of the steering wheel, the friction a dull, useless anchor against the relentless pull of the memory.

"You did the right thing," he mutteredd, but the empty cab offered no reply.

He recited his list like a prayer against temptation: Jay and Cara, Addy and Sawyer, the cabin's defenses, the coming winter. These were the facts, the hard truths that had governed his life for months. But it felt useless and unimportant, and the only answer that returned was the image of Josie on the porch. The right thing had never felt so much like a mistake.

By late afternoon, they pulled into an abandoned county park they'd used on the trip out. Jay parked the Suburban beneath a cluster of towering pines, while Seth tucked his SUV under low-hanging branches fifty yards away. The routine was so ingrained neither man needed to speak. Perimeter check. A small cooking fire, buried deep enough to conceal its light. A quick meal of venison jerky, crackers, and canned peaches passed between them in a weary silence.

As darkness settled over the woods, they agreed on watches and turned in. Jay and Cara climbed into the back of the Suburban together. Seth returned alone to his own vehicle, stretching out across the folded seats with his pack wedged beneath his head.

Sleep never came.

Through the windshield, the sky hung scattered with stars, and he stared at them until they blurred at the edges. His mind insisted on replaying every last moment from the ranch—Layla tackling him in the yard with a shriek of laughter, Liz clasping his hand and thanking him, her voice catching on every other word, Josie straightening the collar of his jacket with careful fingers, needing one final excuse to touch him. He could still summon the warmth of her forehead against his own, still catch the faint lavender clinging to her sweater when he closed his eyes.

He rolled onto his side and pressed his palm against his face.

"What the hell are you doing?" he whispered into the darkness.

It was the first rule he'd carved into his mind after Molly and AJ died: attachments get you killed. A simple, brutal certainty he'd lived by for years. People left, or people died—that had become the simple arithmetic of the world, and he'd built his entire existence around never owing anyone enough to be broken by their loss.

Then he'd met Josie.

She hadn't asked him to stay.

That cut deeper than anything else. She'd cared for him enough—even if neither of them had found the courage to name it—to open her hands and let him go, because she understood what duty meant to him. She'd swallowed her own heartbreak so he wouldn't have to carry it down the road.

His eyes burnt, and he let them.

He'd spent his whole life believing duty demanded the sacrifice of everything he wanted, that a man measured himself by what he gave up rather than what he held onto. But lying there in the dark, turning the thought over and over, he wondered if he'd gotten it wrong all along.

What if duty no longer pointed toward the cabin?

What if, this morning, he'd driven away from the last chance he would ever get to build something that resembled an actual life?

He sat upright so suddenly the SUV rocked on its suspension, his breath loud in the stillness. A single, clarifying thought cut through the haze of doubt: duty wasn't a road, it was a choice. And he had chosen wrong.

The first hint of dawn painted the eastern sky gray. Seth had already been standing outside for the better part of an hour. His pack sat at his feet, and his SUV's engine remained cold—he hadn't started it, hadn't even reached for the door. He simply stood there, staring down the road they'd traveled yesterday, when Jay wandered over with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand.

Jay met his gaze and offered a quiet, knowing smile.