This was a truck that had worked.
A truck that had carried things heavier than pride.
Miguel backed the pickup into place, rain pounding the hood so hard it sounded like fists. He moved fast, looping the chain under the sedan’s frame with calm, practiced hands. His fingers were rough and cut in places, his knuckles scarred, but there was no uncertainty in him.
He had done hard things before.
The woman stayed by the open door of her car, watching him like she was trying to understand what kind of man would stop in weather like this for a stranger he’d never see again.
Miguel climbed into the truck. The engine coughed, then growled alive.
One slow pull.
Then another.
The sedan lurched.
Mud fought to keep it.
The tires spun.
Then, with one final drag, the car came free.
