Chapter 5 - Morning Coffee From A Thermos In The Pine Woods
The cold leaked through the truck's worn door seal hours before the sun came up, stiffening my shoulders and settling deep into my bones. When I finally blinked my eyes open, the dashboard digital clock glowed a dim 5:42, casting a faint green light over Caleb’s profile. He was awake, sitting motionless behind the steering wheel with his gaze fixed on the dirt track that wound deeper into the timber. The engine idled with a low, rhythmic thrum, keeping the cab just warm enough to hold back the frost that crusted the outside of the windshield.
My neck throbbed from sleeping at an awkward angle against the passenger-side window. I rubbed my hands together, trying to coax feeling back into my fingers, and let out a small, shivering breath that fogged the glass.
Caleb didn't turn his head, but his hand moved toward the floorboard. "Here," he said, his voice gravelly and low from hours of silence. "Take the edge off."
He unscrewed the faded green cap of a bruised metal thermos and poured a steaming stream of black coffee into the small plastic cup serving as a lid. He handed it across the cab, his calloused fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. The heat radiated straight through the thin plastic into my palms. I brought it to my face, inhaling the bitter, dark aroma that chased away the lingering haze of sleep. It tasted strong and unadorned, the exact same way he used to brew it behind the diner counter before the men in leather jackets had kicked the glass door in.
"Where are we?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. I took a slow sip, letting the warmth travel down my throat.
"State timberland," Caleb said, finally looking over at me. His salt-and-pepper beard caught the faint gray light filtering through the pine canopy. "About twenty miles north of the county line. We lost them back near the ridge when I took that old logging spur. They won't find tracks out here until the morning crews come through."
I held the warm plastic cup with both hands, my eyes dropping to his knuckles. In the daylight filtering through the trees, I could see the web of pale, jagged scars crisscrossing the back of his hands and disappearing beneath the frayed cuffs of his dark brown leather jacket. They weren't kitchen burns or routine workshop nicks. They were old, deep injuries—the kind you get from broken glass, gravel slides, and desperate fights in the dark.
"You didn't answer me yesterday," I said quietly, watching the steam rise from the coffee. "At the diner. You said my dad and you go way back. But I worked that counter for three years, and I never saw you once."
Caleb kept his eyes on the dirt road ahead, his jaw tight. "Your old man didn't talk much about his past life once he settled down in this county. He didn't want the noise following him. But twenty years ago, before you were born, we pulled some freight together across the state line. He saved my skin more times than I can count. When things went sideways for him later on, he made me promise I'd keep an eye on you if the people he used to run with ever came looking."
"My dad died of a bad heart five years ago," I whispered, the familiar ache pulling at my chest. "In a county hospital bed. What kind of people would still be looking for him after all this time?"
"The kind who don't believe debts ever get written off," Caleb replied, shifting the truck into first gear with a quiet grind of the transmission. "Your dad kept records. Small notebooks, ledgers, names of people who thought their dirty transactions were buried forever. The men in the diner—they aren't just muscle for hire. They're looking for where those papers ended up."
I stared at him, the pieces of a puzzle I never knew existed suddenly clicking into place. The locked steel box in the back of my aunt's closet. The sudden, unannounced visits my dad made to the timber office before he got sick.
"My aunt's house," I said, a cold realization washing over me that had nothing to do with the morning frost. "We were supposed to wait another two days before checking on her place."
"We can't wait," Caleb said, letting out a measured breath as the truck began to roll forward down the pine-needle-covered track. "If those men missed us at the diner, they'll check the family circle next. Your aunt’s place is the logical stop. We need to get there before they do."
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I took one last swallow of the black coffee, handing the empty plastic lid back to him. The warmth was gone from my hands, replaced by a sharp, steady resolve. I pulled the collar of my beige diner uniform tighter against my throat, braced my feet against the floorboard, and watched the dark pines blur past the window as we headed back toward the main road.
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