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She changed three outfits this morning before we left, finally settling on dark jeans, boots, and one of Ben’s old sweatshirts beneath her coat. Hair tied back loosely. She studies shelter locations with the kind of concentration that borders on self-punishment.

Exhaustion still shadows beneath her eyes. But there’s determination in them. The combination is dangerously compelling.

Briggs shifts behind me. “How much money you spend already?”

“Enough,” I reply.

“That answer sounds like a cover up for an accounting crime.”

“Proper preparation costs.”

Torin stretches his legs slightly toward the middle seat. “Ashby planned this like we’re invading a small country.”

I nod. “A reasonable critique. Possibly accurate.”

I prefer preparedness over improvisation whenever possible. Hotel rooms booked in advance. Fuel stops mapped. Shelter locations organized by proximity and timeline. Emergency cash separated into envelopes because systems fail more often than people admit, and I refuse to leave Laurel stranded somewhere unfamiliar if cards stop working.

Control through logistics.

My father once called it obsessive.

Personally, I think the man who lost three mortgages gambling should’ve minded his own business more often.

Laurel finally closes the folder with a tired sigh before leaning her head briefly against the passenger window.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Define okay.”

“Specifically in this case, functional enough not to attempt vehicular escape while said vehicle is in motion.”

“That narrows things down a bit. No, I’m not planning to jump out of the car.”

Her voice is softer today. Less jagged around the edges. Maybe because she’s moving toward something instead of waiting helplessly for news to arrive.

Briggs watches her constantly. At this point we’re all operating with the subtlety of emotionally compromised wolves.

Laurel notices eventually, because of course she does. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Briggs asks with an approximation of innocence that fools nobody.

“The weird, synchronized staring.”

“We’re merely assessing morale.” I hide my smile by adjusting the navigation screen.

But Laurel notices anyway and makes a face at me.

Disastrous woman.

The first hour passes quietly after that. Road trip silence. The kind built out of coffee cups, changing scenery, and people settling gradually into shared space without forcing conversation before it arrives naturally.

Mountains rise darkly along the horizon while evergreen forests blur endlessly beside the highway.

At some point Briggs steals Laurel’s trail mix.

This becomes a conflict immediately.

“You stole all the chocolate pieces,” she accuses.