Chapter 3 — The Deal
Atlas
The faint glow of dawn crept along the horizon, the edges of the sky bruised with pale indigo and streaks of muted pink that bled into the darkness. Atlas gripped the wheel with one hand, the leather warm under his palm despite the morning chill, while his other hand rested on the gear stick. The rhythmic hum of the tires and the occasional crackle of CB radio chatter filled the silence. He preferred it that way—constant, predictable. The woman in the passenger seat, however, brought a current of restlessness that didn’t belong in his carefully ordered world.
Maren shifted again, tucking her knees under her and fidgeting with the strap of the duffel bag at her feet. The bag itself sat awkwardly, a sharp contrast to the meticulous organization of the cab. Atlas’s gaze flicked to her briefly before returning to the road. She’d been quiet for the last half hour, her earlier stream of sarcastic remarks tapering off into something like uneasy stillness. He didn’t trust the quiet. It felt like the kind of pause that came just before lightning cracked the sky.
“So,” she finally said, breaking the hum of the truck. Her voice was light, casual, but the edge beneath it was impossible to miss. “What’s the plan, exactly?”
Atlas’s eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, the asphalt gleaming faintly under the soft dawn light. “Plan?” he echoed, keeping his tone even.
“You know—what happens now?” Maren shifted to lean an elbow on the window frame, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I figure I can’t just sit here forever. Even you, Mr. Stoic, probably have some rules about hitchhikers overstaying their welcome.”
Rules. He had plenty of them. Rules were why he’d pulled over in the first place, his mind flashing to a memory of his brother and the unshakable weight of promises unfulfilled. His jaw tightened slightly. He glanced at her, a quick sweep of hazel eyes sharp but unreadable as he took in her disheveled appearance—frayed jeans, scuffed boots, a jacket that had seen too many miles on the road. “I told you I’d take you to the next truck stop,” he said.
“Yeah, you did.” Maren’s tone was breezy, but her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag. “Thing is, the next truck stop doesn’t sound all that appealing. You seem like the helpful type, though. Maybe you could let me stick around a little longer. Temporary. Strictly professional, of course.”
Atlas let the suggestion linger in the air, the whir of the tires filling the gap. He shifted his grip on the wheel, his knuckles whitening. She was joking. Or testing him. Or both. Either way, it prickled at his sense of order—a disruption in the neatly drawn lines of his solitude. “You’re not exactly dressed for professional,” he said dryly, his gaze flicking pointedly to the tear at her jacket’s elbow and the dirt smudging her boots.
Maren chuckled, a quick, throaty sound that drew a faint smirk across her lips. “Touché. But seriously, I’m not asking to move in. Just a few days. I can pitch in if you want. Snacks? Moral support? I’m excellent at both.”
“This isn’t a vacation,” he said, his voice flat. Yet even as the words left his mouth, he caught the slight hunch of her shoulders, the way she avoided looking at him for too long. Her humor was sharp, but there was something beneath it—something fragile, frayed at the edges. He adjusted his grip again, the leather creaking faintly.
“Does it look like I’m here for leisure?” she countered. Her tone was light, but her eyes darted briefly to the side mirror, scanning the empty stretch of highway behind them. She leaned back in her seat, her fingers still clinging to the strap of her bag. “Look, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. But I’m not asking for a handout. Just a ride. A few days to figure my next move.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze traced the pale horizon, the long line of the road ahead. He thought of the truck stop he’d offered to take her to, the way she’d stiffened when he’d mentioned it last night. She hadn’t said much after that, but he’d caught the flicker of something in her expression—fear, maybe, or the quiet determination of someone who wasn’t ready to stop moving.
Atlas exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the wheel. He didn’t like disruptions, didn’t like letting people into the carefully controlled orbit of his life. But her words—her voice low and edged with exhaustion—settled heavy in his chest, tugging at memories he didn’t want to look too closely at. His brother’s handwriting flashed in his mind, the notebook tucked in the glove compartment like an accusation he couldn’t escape. He’d failed once before. Could he risk failing again?
“Three days,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “No more.”
Maren turned to him, her brows lifting in surprise. “Three days?”
“That’s it,” he said. “You do what you need to do and find somewhere else. Got it?”
She broke into a wide grin, bright and unguarded, and for a moment it caught him off guard—like sunlight breaking through clouds in the canyon he’d visited years ago. It felt fleeting, out of place, but grounding. “Got it,” she said. “Three days. I can work with that. Thanks, Atlas.”
He didn’t respond, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a battered notebook, its cover creased with wear. She flipped it open, thumbing through pages filled with scrawled handwriting and taped-in fragments of paper.
“What’s that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Maren glanced at him, surprised. “This?” She held it up. “Just a journal. Kind of like a scrapbook, I guess. I’ve been keeping track of places I’ve been—photos, notes, sketches. Stuff like that.”
“Thought you didn’t have a plan,” he said, his tone more curious than skeptical.
She laughed softly, almost to herself. “I don’t. The journal’s more of a… I don’t know. A way to remind myself that I’m still moving. That there’s still something worth remembering.”
Something in the way she said it lingered, brushing against thoughts he’d long buried. He shifted in his seat, adjusting the rearview mirror as the road stretched on endlessly before them.
“Thanks again, by the way,” Maren said after a while, her voice quieter now.
“For what?” Atlas asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“For not being a serial killer. And for letting me crash your truck for a bit.”
The faintest flicker of a smirk crossed his lips, though he didn’t let it linger. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“No promises,” she said, her grin softening into something closer to genuine. Her voice carried a note of something unspoken—gratitude, maybe, or relief.
Atlas shook his head slightly, turning his attention back to the road. Three days, he reminded himself. He could handle three days.
Couldn’t he?## The Hitchhiker
Atlas
The highway stretched endlessly before Atlas, the twin beams of his truck’s headlights carving through the inky darkness. Night driving always brought a kind of solace. Fewer cars. Fewer distractions. Just the road and the steady rhythm of the engine. This stretch of blacktop was particularly desolate, the stars overhead muted by the faint haze of clouds. The scent of diesel mixed faintly with the cool night air drifting in through the truck’s slightly cracked window. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, the leather worn smooth from countless miles, and absently turned down the volume on the crackling country station playing low on the radio.
At first, it was just a flicker in his peripheral vision. A pair of angled headlights, slightly askew, casting a weak glow by the shoulder. He slowed instinctively, his focus sharpening. As he approached, the figure emerged—a woman pacing near the hood of the car, her arms wrapped around herself.
Atlas’s jaw clenched. Too many things could go wrong. Too many risks. Someone else would stop, he told himself. Someone better suited to… whatever this was. His foot hovered over the gas pedal, the truck rumbling beneath him as if encouraging him to keep going. But the image of her lingered, etched into his mind like a sketch he couldn’t erase. A lone figure on a dark road, vulnerable, exposed.
The thought twisted sharp and familiar in his chest, dragging his brother’s face to the forefront of his mind. He hated how easily it could happen—this unbidden weight, this guilt, always waiting for a crack to slip through. He tightened his grip on the wheel, trying to shake it off.
He glanced at the rearview mirror, the woman’s silhouette already swallowed by the shadows behind him. The truck hummed forward, urging him into the safety of indifference.
“Dammit,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rumble of the truck.
The hiss of the brakes broke the quiet as he slowed, pulling onto the shoulder. He reversed carefully until his headlights illuminated her again. She had stopped pacing and turned to face him, one hand braced on her hip while the other shielded her eyes from the glare. Her wavy auburn hair caught the light in uneven streaks, defying the otherwise stark landscape around her.
Atlas killed the engine and opened the door, stepping down into the cool night air. Gravel crunched under his boots as he approached, his movements deliberate. He stayed a safe distance, his hands loose at his sides.
“Need some help?” His voice was measured, neutral, though his senses remained sharp, alert.
The woman dropped her arm and gave him a once-over, her green eyes narrowing as she assessed him. She was petite, dwarfed by the vastness of the highway stretching behind her, but her stance was defiant, her shoulders squared like she was daring the night to mess with her. Or him.
“Unless you’ve got a spare alternator in that truck, I think I’m out of luck.” Her voice was light, tinged with frustration, but not frantic.
Atlas frowned, his gaze shifting to her car—a beat-up sedan with its hood popped open and a faint trail of steam rising against the night air. “Alternator?”
“Overheating, dead battery, take your pick. I’m no mechanic, but I’m pretty sure it’s toast.” She let out a sharp exhale, crossing her arms. “I’ve been out here for hours. No cell service, naturally, because why would I get lucky?”
His gaze flicked to the duffel bag resting near her feet, its zipper slightly undone to reveal a jumble of clothes. The bag told its own story—transience, movement, a life packed into manageable pieces. Everything about her screamed “hitchhiker,” though she didn’t fit the usual mold. There was no visible desperation, no vacant stare. She looked irritated, sure, but there was something harder to pin down. Something that didn’t match the broken-down car or the middle-of-nowhere setting.
“Where were you headed?” he asked.
“Anywhere but back.” The response came quick, almost flippant, but her eyes betrayed her. There was weight in those three words, a story she wasn’t ready to tell.
She gave him another long look, as though trying to decide if he was trustworthy. Finally, she spoke again. “I’m Maren.” Her tone softened just slightly, the faint edge of her earlier frustration fading.
He nodded once. “Atlas.”
Maren blinked, her lips quirking upward. “That’s a name?”
“It’s a name,” he said dryly, stepping closer to her car. He peered under the hood, though the darkness and her earlier diagnosis told him it wouldn’t do much good. Out of habit, he grabbed the rag hanging from his back pocket and checked the coolant, more for something to do than out of any real hope.
“I can’t fix this here,” he said finally, straightening. “Closest truck stop’s about twenty miles up the road. Might have a tow service there.”
She hesitated, her weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other. “You offering me a ride?”
Atlas met her gaze, steady and unflinching. “You got other options?”
Her lips twitched into a faint, wry smile. “Fair point.”
He gestured toward the passenger side of his truck. “Grab your bag.”
For a second, she didn’t move, her fingers twitching at her sides. “You’re not a serial killer, right? Just throwing that out there.”
“If I was, do you think I’d tell you?” he replied evenly, already heading back to the truck without waiting for her answer.
Her laugh was short, almost startled, but she followed him, slinging the duffel bag over her shoulder. By the time she climbed into the cab, he was already behind the wheel, adjusting the rearview mirror out of habit.
Maren settled into the passenger seat, her bag resting at her feet. She glanced around the cab, her gaze lingering on the worn leather seats and the faintly scuffed dashboard. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Great. This is gonna be fun,” she muttered under her breath, her tone laced with sarcasm but edged with unease.
Atlas ignored her, starting the truck and easing it back onto the highway. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hum of the engine and the occasional static from the radio.
“Thanks for stopping,” she said after a while, her voice quieter now. “I wasn’t sure anyone would.”
He nodded once, his eyes fixed on the road. The weight of her gratitude settled unexpectedly in his chest, stirring something he wasn’t ready to examine.
They drove in silence for a few more miles before she shifted in her seat, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “So, Atlas…”
Her tone was casual, but the sound of his name in her voice felt strange. Too familiar, too soon.
“Is that your real name, or did you just pick it to sound mysterious?”
He sighed. “It’s my name.”
“Okay, okay. Just making conversation.” She tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “What’s the story? You some kind of wandering loner? Brooding man of the road?”
“Something like that.”
Her laugh was soft, genuine this time, cutting through the tension like a brief shaft of light. “Well, you’ve got the whole strong, silent thing nailed. Not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.”
Atlas tightened his grip on the wheel, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “If you’re scared, you can get out.”
She shook her head, still smiling, and settled back against the seat. “Nah. I’ll take my chances.”
The truck rumbled on, the highway stretching endlessly before them. And though the silence returned, it felt different now—less heavy, somehow. Atlas glanced at her briefly, noting the way her eyes drifted to the window, her gaze distant, thoughtful.
She looked like someone running from something, though he didn’t ask what. Not yet.
At least for now, they were just two strangers on the road, each carrying more baggage than they let on. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he was okay with that.
