“Sure. On the way back. If we survive climbing the water tower.”

“Oh my god, I can't believe we're doing… that—” She stopped.

Ahead was a pile of tens of cinder blocks, smashed and disorganized, and continuing around the bend in the road.

“What the hell,” I said.

Tilly and I walked without talking; we marked a slow march that countered that pace of my increasingly speeding heart. I wanted to run over to the pile, to get an idea of why it felt so wrong. But I couldn't bring myself to break character.

The rain had picked up, and the view around the bend was softened by the low, golden light that spun through the seams of the rolling clouds above. The truck came into view shortly after. The flat bed was skewed sideways across the road, cinder blocks littering its path. The wheels of the truck itself were still, but hung freely in the air. The cabin looked to be badly crumpled. A marred tree had embedded its base in the shattered frame of the vehicle's engine compartment. Its headlights were on.

I began running to the truck. The rain had me drenched, and locks of my hair fell free. They brushed my eyelashes with each of my thudding steps in the dust and mud.

“Hello?” I yelled.

“Brennan!” Tilly shouted after me.

I froze when I saw the arm. It hung from the drivers' side window. Rain ran down its length, collecting on the thick, gray hairs, and dripped from the fingertips. The thumb twitched.

“Holy shit. How long—”

Tilly arrived at my side, breathing hard. I wanted to tell her not to look.

“Your phone! Call someone. The police,” I said.

“Oh God, I don't think I have service.”

“What?! Can't you still place emergency calls? You have to.”