Three days of open plains and broken rock.
That was what he left behind when he finally turned back toward the city.
His body felt different now. Tighter. More responsive.
Every movement carried a precision that was not there before, like the difference between a blade fresh from the forge and one that had finally been sharpened.
The outer road was empty this time of day. Just cracked asphalt stretching in both directions and the faint smell of dry earth rising off the flats.
He slowed as small buildings came into view.
That was when he saw it.
On the highway shoulder, an old black sedan sat with its hood propped open.
A man stood over the engine, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a rag he was using to wipe something down.
Francis stopped.
He looked at the man. Then at the road ahead. Then back at the man.
His current state was a problem he had not fully addressed yet.
