By the time I awaken, my leg is hot in the advancing dawn. The sun rises over the front of truck, climbing my body as it pulls back the shade of the cabin.

Morgan is gone. I twist, searching, and find her sitting in the front seat, staring into the rearview mirror. Her purse is open and she's applying eyeliner. A brush and lipstick rest on the dash.

I pull myself up, hands on the metal under me and then the roof. My cast aches against my skin, pressed nearly to my bone as I slept. I move my thigh from side to side, trying to ignore the tingling numbness as feeling returns to my leg.

My knee is sore from the day of ducking and hiding, hips and shins bruised where the cast grinds against me. I'd give anything to be able to run. Seems like that may come in handy.

"Get up on the roof of the truck," Morgan says, voice muffled through the glass between us.

I do so, hoisting myself up until my legs are draped across the rear window.

"Okay, look straight ahead, the direction the truck is facing."

I turn, following her instructions, shielding my eyes with an open hand. I'm perched over the overgrown field of tall weeds and the skeletal cypress trees they choke.

The back of the medical examiner's office is only a hundred yards away. A chain link fence with a barbed wire crown guards a metal shed.

"You see the morgue?"

"Yeah," I answer. "I see it."

She says nothing—I decide to fill the void.

"Hey, let me ask: Is it all worth it?"

I can feel her voice through the roof of the truck. "What?"

"This, everything. Being a fugitive."

"Given my options, yeah."

"What about Mr. Banks? You said it yourself, it's his fault we got pulled over. Now you're cremating a body to keep yourself out of prison. How can anything be worth that?"

"I'm cremating my ex-husband so I'm not in your shoes a week from now," she says dryly. "But, Mr. Banks can keep you safe. He really can. He can also get you killed, but he can keep you safe. Not many people on this earth can say that to someone like you, someone the whole world is searching for. He can keep you safe, and he can make you rich. Come down here."

As I climb down, Morgan keeps talking: "You're going to drive me around to the examiner's office, then drop me off and come back here. When I'm done, I'll signal you from the back of the building, where you're looking now. Then, come around and pick me up, and we'll get the hell out of Florida."

She slides over, and I climb into the driver's side of the car. Thankfully, it's an automatic, and I can drive with one leg.

The truck lurches, climbing easily over ground that sucked at our tires only yesterday, wheels pulling us over the broad-leaf ferns we flattened on our trip out.

I stop at the edge of the street, good foot pressing down the brake, which does nothing until the pedal is flush with the body of the car, then stops all at once. The dashboard clock says eight in the morning, and the farm road is quiet.

We turn twice, and I stop in front of the stone sign marking the medical examiner's office. Morgan hops out, same sundress, makeup pristine, with her inconsolably tangled hair hidden under the straw hat. She pulls a mailing envelope from the duffel bag, then sets the bag and her purse in the floor of the truck. Then she shuts her door, and is gone.

I don't like this. Still, I drive on, alone.

On the return trip, I pass a policeman, going the opposite direction. My first instinct is to speed up, or turn and run—but I repress those urges. I stare straight ahead, tell myself repeatedly that there's nothing to fear. Make it true.

The cop passes. Nothing happens.

I return to our trail into the tall weeds, making sure no one is around before I pull in. I do what I've been told, and park in the same flattened clearing. After I kill the engine, I climb up into the trunk, then on the roof.

The sun breaks past a haze of morning clouds, and the metal warms from it. Just getting started, though—by midday, it will be twenty degrees hotter.

I wait and worry. Another cop car rolls down the street where the coroner's office rests. Could be routine, or something that has nothing to do with us, or part of the manhunt. I don't like it. But, there is nothing else to do, and so I sit, and wait, and watch.

Less than an hour into my vigil, a figure turns the corner of the building and begins waving both arms into the air, in the direction of my truck. I cannot make out a face, but it must be her.

I jump into the bed, then down to the ground, pulling myself along, equal part hands and feet.

The truck awakens; I force the automatic transmission into reverse, lever reluctantly snapping into place with an extra shove of my arm. I crane my neck to see out the rear window as I back straight out, using the tracks I've already worn.

I miss the track. A wet slurch. My rear, driver's side tire slides down into a pit of mud; I accelerate instinctively, pressing on the gas. Mud flies, spat out of the wheel well—some lands with a plop on the side mirror.

Damnit. I press harder, but the truck only sinks further. I put it in park and jump out. I hop to the side, balancing against the vehicle. Wet muck swallows the bottom half of the wheel.

Morgan is waiting on me. I get back inside, try driving forward instead. I move a few inches—promising—but lose traction again and slip back.

I back up again, anxiety rising. We need this truck; we need to get out of Florida.

Reverse gets me nowhere. I hit the gas, twisting the wheel, climbing another inch before falling back. I repeat this, frantic now, turning the wheel left then right, in forward then reverse.

Minutes pass, but I refuse to give up. I roll down my window and lean halfway out to see what I'm backing into. Mud coats the rear windshield and side mirror, and I imagine I have dug a hole half the size of the ancient pickup.

Then, I manage to rock the truck out of the rut. When I reverse, the tire balances on the edge of the pit. My breath catches in my throat; I ease the wheel along, slowly reversing until I've edged around the ditch I dug.

I check the time on the dashboard: I've been trapped for twenty minutes. Sweat soaks my clothes, wets my hands. Can't get to the front of the medical examiner's office fast enough. The tires are mud slick and I slide a few inches into my turn, leaving wet dirt on the road in my wake. I turn the two corners to reach the coroner's office.

A crosswind strikes the car, sending grass clippings and dust through the open window and into the cabin. Some catches across my face; I begin blinking violently to clear my vision.

When I can see again, it's blue and red lights. They glow dimly in the sun; a police car is stopped at the side of the road, a few hundred yards away from the office and another few hundred more in front of me.

Shit. I drive past, staring out my window. The cruiser is empty. My eyes rise from the car to the grassland beyond: there he is, blue-uniformed back to me, trotting into the high grass. A few dozen feet in front of him, a woman in a floral sundress sprints full-speed through the weeds, outpacing the officer.

Morgan is running on foot. Damnit, she must have started walking when I didn't come. Maybe she was spotted by a passing cruiser.

I slow down; she's got him beat. The officer stops chasing, then lifts his radio to his chest. While barking instructions, he turns and sees me. I accelerate suddenly, driving past as Morgan disappears into the trees.

Just keep driving. Just keep driving.

How do I find her? I need to find her again.

I can't turn around, can't join the cop in the search for her. They'll see who I am, arrest me immediately.

Shit. Damnit, Sean, damnit, worthless truck and worthless mud. She needed me for one thing. Now what? She's running through the woods.

She might call. She has her—

I turn my head, look at the floor of the passenger seat. The black duffel bag rests, fat with money and guns. My knee holds the steering wheel in place as I bend down, grab the bag and bring it up next to me. I dig with a free hand.

I'm holding her phone. Morgan is gone.