The truck rolled slow down the dirt road that cut through the back pasture, Wren driving with one hand on the wheel and the other drumming against his thigh. Ryder sat slouched in the passenger seat, hat low, eyes hidden, like a man bracing for the chute to swing open.
They turned up the rise, where the pasture gave way to a small grove of oaks, their leaves whispering in the early evening breeze. In the center, the headstone caught the last of the dying light—Tyler Hayes cut deep into polished granite.
When Wren killed the engine, neither man moved for a long minute. Then Wren finally said, “Go on. He’s waitin’.”
Ryder’s boots hit the ground heavy. He walked slow, hat in hand, like every step took something out of him. The scent of rain still clung to the earth, mixing with the faint t
