The drive back to Ezra's house was silent.
Harold's truck moved steadily through the sleeping streets of Bailey Falls, his hands resting firmly on the steering wheel.
There were no words.
No radio.
No attempt to fill the silence.
Only the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of tires passing over uneven pavement.
A few streets away, Ezra was doing the same.
Driving alone.
Thinking about everything he had heard.
Neither man had much to say after leaving Grey's house.
There were too many things sitting heavily between them.
Too many things that had been said.
Too many things that had been remembered.
And too many things neither of them was ready to speak about yet.
Eventually, both trucks turned onto the same familiar street.
Ezra's home appeared ahead.
The house was dark from the outside, except for the faint glow of a light somewhere behind the curtains.
Harold's truck slowed.
Ezra's did the same.
