# Chapter 253:

# Chapter 253:
Melinda's POV

The old man gestured for Michael and me to follow him. "Come on," he said, "my truck's just up front."

Michael and I exchanged uncertain glances. I chewed my bottom lip, considering our options. We needed to get to the Alpha King's mansion as quickly as possible, and this stranger's offer seemed like our best chance—maybe our only chance.

Michael gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and we followed the old man out of the gas station.

The "truck" turned out to be an ancient, rust-covered pickup that I had initially mistaken for an abandoned vehicle. Patches of original red paint were barely visible beneath layers of dust and corrosion. The windshield was cracked in one corner, and the side mirror on the driver's side was held together with what looked like duct tape.

The old man opened the door and settled behind the wheel, peering at us through the windshield.

Michael opened the passenger door, which groaned in protest. "After you," he said, his voice tight with controlled tension.

I slid into the middle of the bench seat, my uncertainty growing. There was no back seat—just this single bench that would put me uncomfortably close to a stranger. I glanced at Michael again, silently questioning if we were making the right choice.

Michael slipped in beside me, his arm immediately going around my shoulders in a protective gesture. The cab smelled of cigarettes, pine air freshener, and something else I couldn't quite identify—something wild and earthy.

The old man turned the key, and the engine coughed and sputtered before reluctantly roaring to life. The entire truck shuddered as if it might fall apart at any moment.

"It'll get us there," the old man said, noticing my apprehension.

We pulled away from the gas station onto a narrow dirt road that wound through thick pine forest. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches occasionally scraping against the truck's sides with an unsettling screech.

As we drove deeper into the woods, I had the distinct sensation of being watched. Peering out the window, I caught glimpses of what looked like pairs of golden eyes among the trees, following our progress. A chill ran down my spine.

"Michael," I whispered, nudging him subtly and nodding toward the window.

He followed my gaze and tightened his arm around me. "It's okay," he murmured, but I could feel the tension in his body.

The old man noticed my unease. "Strays," he said, the word hanging in the air between us. "They won't attack vehicles. But if you were on foot..." He let the implication hang in the air.

I swallowed hard. "Um... are Strays common around here?"

He nodded. "Yes."

I felt a wave of relief that we hadn't tried walking. Michael's hand squeezed my shoulder reassuringly.

We continued in silence as the truck bumped along the uneven road. Gradually, the trees thinned, and the road widened. After crossing a small bridge, we hit paved asphalt, and the old man accelerated. I was surprised the decrepit vehicle could move so fast.

Despite the driver's gruff manner and the truck's alarming condition, I felt a strange comfort in his presence. It reminded me of the odd feeling I'd experienced with Joel and Jane, that elderly couple. This man was harsher, more weathered, but there was a similar energy about him—almost paternal.

This unexpected sense of security emboldened me to break the silence, ignoring Michael's concerned glance.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Bob," he replied without elaboration.

Bob didn't ask for my name in return, and he didn't offer anything else. I waited a moment before trying again.

"So... what do you do for work?"

Bob made a grunting sound, and Michael's hand tightened on my shoulder. His eyes warned me not to pry, but my curiosity pushed me forward.

Bob suddenly turned the tables. "Where are you two from, anyway?" His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "You're obviously not from around here. I know he's a wolf," he said, jerking a thumb toward Michael. "But you..." His tone carried a note of accusation.

I felt my cheeks flush. "Wh-what?" I stammered. "Why do you ask?"

I realized I must smell human to them, and wondered if these people distrusted humans. But that didn't explain why Bob had given us a ride. Michael and I exchanged wary glances, unsure how to respond.

Bob noticed our exchange and laughed, a sound like a shovel scraping across gravel.

"It's fine. You don't have to tell me anything. Hey, look over there."

He pointed ahead to a neon sign glowing on the roadside—a 24-hour diner. It was the kind of place that catered to truckers, with a parking lot filled with other beaten-up pickups. I suspected this remote location didn't just serve truck drivers; the vehicles confirmed my suspicion.

Bob pulled the truck into the parking lot and shut off the engine. For the first time since we'd met him, he turned to fully face Michael and me, his eyes dropping to the small bag of water and snacks at Michael's feet.

"You two are on some kind of important journey, huh?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Look, I don't know what you're up to... but you need more food than that. Come on, the food here is decent. Hot too."

Michael and I looked at each other, then down at our meager supplies. I realized we'd barely eaten since leaving campus. My stomach growled audibly, and I suddenly felt ravenous.

Michael nodded and opened his door. "Alright, Bob," he said, his tone more relaxed than it had been earlier. "We could eat something." The kindness in Bob's offer seemed to have eased Michael's wariness.

We entered a classic roadside diner—teal or off-white vinyl booths, an enameled counter, and the smell of coffee and grease.

Bob led us to a corner booth and eased himself down with a slight grimace. Michael and I slid into the opposite side.

A waitress in a blue dress and white apron wordlessly poured three cups of black coffee and set down a small pitcher of cream. No sugar. She chewed gum as she looked us over.

"Hey, Bob," she said to our companion.

"Weather's good for driving," she added.

"Mmm," he responded.

She studied Michael and me carefully, still chewing her gum. "Who are they?"

Michael answered for me. "Just passing through." I noticed his speech pattern had shifted, his cadence matching the local drawl. I realized he really was from around here, or at least familiar with the area.

The waitress nodded, apparently satisfied with the lack of information. I was grateful that people here didn't ask too many questions.

"Three burgers," Bob ordered. "Extra cheese."

"Fries?" the waitress asked.

"Yeah. Thanks, Grace."

She scribbled on her pad and walked away.

An awkward silence fell. I observed the other customers—plainly dressed, suggesting the area wasn't prosperous. I gathered my courage to ask another question.

"Bob, can you tell us about this place?"

Bob stared at me. "You're here for Luna, aren't you?"

I blinked in surprise. "No, we're looking for Selena. I don't know anyone named Luna."

Bob nodded. "This place is pretty run-down," he admitted. "Used to be a good place, hardworking folks. Had a lumber mill. I was the Beta." He fell silent, as if that explained everything.

Michael and I exchanged surprised glances at his candor.

"What happened?" I pressed.

Bob paused, choosing his words carefully. "All I can say is, things haven't been good for little people like us since the new Luna married the Alpha King years ago. But we're mostly good folk. Even those who turned to crime to feed their families... they're good people."

I thought of the eyes I'd seen in the forest. "Those Strays..."

Bob nodded. "Yep. Truth is, there were several following you earlier."

I realized with a start that Bob hadn't been watching us from his window out of distrust—he'd been watching out for our safety. If he hadn't offered us a ride, we might have been attacked.

Grace returned with three plates piled high with burgers and fries. The food looked and smelled amazing. Michael immediately stuffed his mouth with burger. "So good," he mumbled around the food.

Bob let out a raspy chuckle, and we ate in comfortable silence, the food too delicious for conversation.

When Bob finished his last bite and wiped his mouth, he looked directly at me. His eyes shone with a brighter gold than before. I felt a strange sensation, as if my brain was being thoroughly searched, like someone had taken a fine-toothed comb and carefully sorted through my thoughts, plucking them out one by one. My throat tightened, and I couldn't look away from his gaze.

His lips didn't move, but his voice was clear in my mind: No one needs to die. You can fight that dark sister without harming anyone.