Friday came up cold and clear and they left before the sun was properly up.
He didn't take the farm pickup. That big diesel thing was built for hauling cinder blocks and bags of feed up a dirt track and it rode like a tractor and drank fuel worse than Rury drank well water. For six hours of highway with a pregnant woman, no chance. He'd called the same rental place in town the day before, the one that already had a fake-friendly file on him, and swapped a few thousand lira for a Nissan crossover, grey, quiet, with seats that didn't try to break your spine on every pothole.
"This one's softer," Emily announced the second she climbed in, running her hands over the dashboard like she was checking a horse for soundness. "I like this one better than the loud farm one."
"It's Japanese. They're good at making things comfortable." He pulled out onto the empty coast road. "The pickup is for work. This one's for not making your back worse."
