Page 2 of Dread

The engine cut. The driver’s door opened. The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall -- though he was that, well over six feet -- but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym. Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.

I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up -- one step sideways, placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.

He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible, relaxed. His eyes -- steel blue, I registered distantly -- moved over me in a single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating. Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less thorough.

“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”

I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.

“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running, aimed at the seat.

I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around it.

He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame, and waited. The patience in him carried its own force -- steady, unhurried, taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.

A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”

She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us in layers -- first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a whimper, and pressed against my side.

Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough to reach, far enough to leave space.

He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow, then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch lasted three seconds, maybe four. “How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”

“When did you last have water?” he asked.

“This morning. In the car.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Lightheaded?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that hadn’t decided about him yet.

“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.

“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”

She thought about it. Nodded.

“Head hurt?”

Small shake.

“Throat dry?”

Nod.

He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold -- room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while -- but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The water tasted like plastic and salvation.

Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back, recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.