The windshield wipers scraped on the glass like nails on a chalkboard, keeping a rhythm that was almost hypnotizing in the gloom before the sun came up. Grey Mercer's hands were tight on the steering wheel of his old, beat-up pickup, knuckles as white as his skin that hadn't felt the sun in way too long. The photo tucked into the visor above was of his mom, smiling like she knew he'd always find his way back home.
The road went on forever through the grayness of rural Pennsylvania, matching his name and the empty feeling in his chest. Rain hit the truck like tiny drums, and every so often, the echo of gunfire played in his head—a sound that never really left him from the war. At twenty-seven, he felt like he'd lived a hundred years.
His reflection in the side mirror showed a guy who looked like he'd seen too much—thin cheeks, eyes with deep shadows, and a scar snaking from his left temple to his jaw. The docs had patched him up as best they could, but some scars went deeper than the skin.
Then, bam! A deer just pops up out of nowhere.
It jumps into the headlights like a ghost, its eyes glinting like gold coins. Grey yanks the wheel to the right, and the truck starts screeching like it's being murdered. The next thing he knows, he's smashing through a wooden fence, and the sound is like bones breaking.
When everything stops, he's hanging upside down in his seatbelt, with a little blood running down his forehead from a cut. The photo of his mom's all soggy now, lying in a mud puddle on the shattered glass that used to be his windshield. He gets himself unbuckled and drops down hard, his bad leg screaming at him. Through the rain and the dark, he sees a farmhouse. It looks like it's been abandoned, but he's gotta get out of the storm.