The exertion sent aches and pins through his body, so this time he was more careful climbing the truck. When he looked down into the cab, the keys glinted near the steering column. He lowered his sore body, using the shift stick as a halfway step. Then he placed his left leg so he was standing on the ground through the driver’s-side window. Glass particles crunched under his feet, reminding him of Rice Krispies. With both feet set where the driver’s-side window would be, he bent down. There was no need for him to be seated in the truck to start it. Although a manual transmission, his truck had come equipped with a clutch start cancel switch, a feature that started the truck without depressing the clutch pedal. This was ideal for situations when the driver was stuck on a hill. Pushing the clutch down meant vehicle rollback—the last thing you wanted on steep and slick terrain.

Matt reached for the switch with a shaky finger and pressed it. With his other hand he turned the key, the bronze Glacier National Park keychain tinkling against the steering column.

The test lights came up on the center console, indicating no engine damage. Matt let out a long exhale. The clutch start cancel switch lit up, too. After a deep breath, he turned the key. The old Toyota sputtered and shook.

“Come on,” he said, his vision shimmery with unshed tears. “You can do it!”

The venerable 22RE engine clamored to life, letting loose a discordant chorus of whines, rumbles, and pops.

Matt’s limbs tingled and he couldn’t help but grin. His old friend was back.

Just when he’d found the courage to smile, a shadow oozed across the dashboard. The passenger door slammed shut, shattering the side mirror. Glass tumbled towards him like silver, stinging insects. He turned away and cried out as the truck shook. Needle sensations lit his nerves afire, and it became difficult to breathe.

Turn it off dumbass! the little voice said.

Matt reached blindly for the key, touched the smooth metal, and switched it back. The engine stopped, and with it the physical symptoms.

Matt huddled there in his own truck cab, a frightened, trapped animal, each breath matching his pounding heart and the fading stomps of the creature.

He clenched his fists and grimaced. Then he waited. And waited. Occasionally a bird darted past the passenger-side window.

“I’m so sorry to see you like this,” he whispered to the truck. But most of all he was sorry to be trapped in a place that had always been home. He’d never really been betrayed before. It tasted sour, like a lemon, or a piece of bread that hadn’t been checked for mold.