Chapter IV — A Cool Winter’s Sting

January 4, 2010

The night was brittle with cold—the kind that seeped through fabric and into bone, leaving every inhale sharp and burning in the chest. A thin crust of frost clung to the roadside grass, glittering like powdered glass beneath the dim wash of moonlight. Dereck and Noah had been driving for nearly an hour along the winding backroads, the heater spitting out warmth that never seemed to reach their fingertips. The hum of the engine was the only sound between them. Dereck’s hands gripped the wheel tight enough that his knuckles whitened, his eyes fixed ahead, jaw set in a locked line. Noah kept stealing glances, reading the tension in his brother’s posture, but saying nothing. Words didn’t seem to belong here. The first sign was a faint glint ahead, then a flicker of orange, like a ghost of movement in the distance. As they rounded the next curve, the scene materialized—violent and immediate. A vehicle sat hunched on the shoulder, engulfed in fire, the flames clawing at the night sky. Heat shimmer distorted the trees, painting them in frantic shades of gold and red. Dereck’s foot slammed the brake, the tires skidding slightly over frost. “Stay in the car,” he ordered, voice sharp and absolute. He was already out the door before Noah could answer. The heat hit him like a wall, burning against the frozen air. He moved toward the wreckage, boots crunching over glass and gravel. A figure lay on the ground near the fire’s edge—half crawling, half collapsing—skin blistered, clothes charred and peeling away. The man’s eyes locked on Dereck’s, wide and desperate. “Madea,” the man rasped, the word clawing its way out of him, ragged and strange. It hung in the cold air like a ghost, foreign yet heavy with meaning. Dereck hesitated, the name catching somewhere in his mind, before he dropped to one knee. He reached out, but the man convulsed, releasing a strangled scream before his body went still. The wreck groaned under its own weight. A sudden crack—metal snapping—then a bloom of light and heat as a secondary explosion ripped through the night. Shrapnel hissed through the air. Something tore across Dereck’s side with a searing sting, knocking him back onto the frost. Through the ringing in his ears, Noah’s voice broke through, panicked and hoarse. Dereck forced himself upright, staggering toward the car. Noah sat slumped in the passenger seat, pale and dazed, a jagged shard of glass cutting across his temple. Blood trickled down, beading along his jaw before freezing in the cold. Dereck yanked open the glove compartment and pulled out the burner phone. He punched in a number from memory. “Maria. I need you. Now,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Where?” He gave the location—an old logging turnout they both knew—then snapped the phone shut. He grabbed a rag from the glove box, pressing it firmly to Noah’s head. “Stay with me,” he muttered. The fire raged behind them, its light casting long, flickering shadows that stretched across the frost-bitten ground. The smell of burning rubber and scorched metal filled the air, mingling with the sharp bite of winter. Somewhere beyond the flames, the word the dying man had spoken still echoed in Dereck’s mind.