With a prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe and a quiet promise to Ilin, Jonas turned the wheel hard, nudging the trailer onto the gravel escape ramp. Sand sprayed, tires screeched, and the cab jolted violently. The trailer groaned like a wounded beast as it slid to a stop. Silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by Jonas’s ragged breathing.
The pendant with Ilin’s face swung gently above the dashboard, untouched by the chaos, and Jonas allowed himself a moment to collapse against the seat. He was alive. He had survived.
Lucía pulled alongside, stepping out, her uniform smeared with dirt and sweat, hair plastered to her forehead. “You made it, Jonas. You’re alive,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
Jonas stumbled out of the cab and embraced her. “I… I can’t thank you enough. You saved me. You saved my life!”
“I just did my job,” she said softly, though the intensity in her eyes suggested otherwise. “Your father… Manuel Rivera. He died here, on these same curves, trying to save a load. Alone. I promised myself I wouldn’t let history repeat.”