Peter stopped his truck ten yards back, turned off the engine, and got out. Without the rumble of the big V8, he could hear the wind whispering in the grass, the early blackbirds calling from the reedtops. The river smelled of wet dirt and melted snow. The clouds were high and thin, the sky the faintest blue, the air so clear he could see into next week.

He was tall and lean, muscle and bone, nothing extra. He wore knee-torn hiking pants and a Milwaukee Tool T-shirt under a blue fleece pullover that June Cassidy had bought him in an attempt to up his clothing game, or at least get him to look less homeless. His hair was dark and shaggy, prematurely silver at the temples, and fell to his collar, covering the slightly pointed tips of his ears. With the bright, thoughtful eyes of a werewolf still recovering from the last full moon, he surveyed the hatchback.

It was newer, small, one of the cheaper imports. The chassis was low and the skinny tires looked fragile on the rough road. A lot could go wrong with a vehicle like that in a place like this. The paint was coated with a layer of road dust.

He stepped forward to get a better look. The car was empty. Nobody reclined in the front or stretched out in the back, earbuds blasting, oblivious to the arrival of Peter’s pickup. There was no picnic basket or blanket, no duffel or purse, no food or water, not even an empty soda can or candy wrapper. The keys were in the ignition and the dome light was on. And all the windows were down. Like the outside, the dashboard and carpet and seats were coated with dust, everything except the driver’s seat.

Had someone else already come to pick up the driver? That didn’t seem likely. Why would you leave your car in the middle of nowhere with the door open, the windows down, and the keys still in it?

Peter turned and took another long slow look around. Not a soul.

Maybe the driver was a kid, gone joyriding and scared of getting caught. Peter was pretty sure joyriding didn’t earn you a death sentence in Nebraska, but getting caught in the open without proper gear might just do the job. Peter was already feeling the chill, standing in the wind without a coat.

What if the driver had a medical problem, a heart attack or seizure, and lay crumpled and hurt and possibly unconscious in the grass nearby?

He put his hand on the car’s dusty hood. Not warm, but not quite cool, either. The engine had stopped an hour ago, give or take.

“Excuse me.”

Startled, Peter spun on his heel and saw a young woman standing on the far side of the cottonwood tree, just past the wide fan of exposed roots. Where the hell had she been?

She was perhaps the most pregnant person Peter had ever seen.