They stopped at a junkyard where broken rigs piled like corpses. Baptized drivers whispered about it being holy ground. Rook felt the pull of every rusted axle, every bent frame.
"The Road remembers everything," Mara said. "Every mile. Every crash. You can tap that memory, if you're strong enough."
Rook touched a burned-out cab. Images flooded him—lives cut short, screams on the highway, steel twisting. He staggered back, sick.
Mara only watched. "Now you see why I don't sleep."