"You remember what we said when we left the city?" she asked. Mateo nodded. "I remember."

Mateo gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Beside him, Elena was tying a makeshift bandage around her forearm, her movements slow but precise.

The rain didn’t just fall; it hammered against the rusted hood of the '84 sedan, a rhythmic drumbeat to the silence between them. Outside, the lights of the border checkpoint flickered like dying stars.