The rain had long since stopped. The air outside the truck was cool and heavy with moisture, the kind that clung to everything. Trees along the roadside dripped steadily, and shallow puddles caught the faint reflection of a pale, washed-out sky.
Clara sat turned halfway in her seat, looking down at the small towel-wrapped shape in Owen’s arms. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said quietly. “That box should’ve filled up with mud.” Tom nodded, eyes on the road. “Yeah. The thing was half-buried. No way anything inside should’ve been breathing.”