Elena Rostova stared through the reinforced front passenger window, her reflection pale and hollow under the cab lights.
Outside, the sodium streetlights drowned in yellow sulfur fog as Coach #404 bounced hard over old railway spurs, rattling Clara’s steel isolette cart.
Elena reached down to steady the frame. Her fingers found the cold chrome rail by reflex.
“Easy on the bumps, Mac,” Elena called out.
Mac didn’t turn his head from the road. His right hand gripped the steering wheel. His brass prosthetic punch stayed clamped to the red air-brake valve.
“Old coal spurs on River Road,” Mac rumbled back. “The city paved over them in seventy-eight. The asphalt rotted out twenty years ago.”
“I know this road,” Elena said. Her voice sounded thin against the diesel roar. “I worked thirty-six-hour shifts here before the loops started. I walked this ditch in the snow.”
Behind her, Julian Vance stood at the yellow standee line. He wiped pink washer fluid off his forearms with a paper towel.
