The truck rattles across the uneven desert road, suspension groaning every time it dips into a shallow rut. Dust trails behind in a pale cloud, rising slowly and lazily before dissolving into the white glare of the afternoon. The desert doesn’t move much. It just exists. Wide, dry, endless. Low brush clings stubbornly to cracked earth. Heat rolls off the ground in visible waves, bending the horizon so it almost looks like water in the distance. Inside the cab, the air is thick. Even with the windows cracked, the wind that pushes through isn’t cool. It’s dry and sharp, carrying sand and the faint metallic smell of sunbaked metal.

Sam drives like he belongs here. One hand steady on the wheel—the other resting near the gearshift. Forearm tanned and scarred, veins standing out against skin that’s seen years of sun. His jaw is tight, but not tense, just focused. He watches the land the way other men watch crowds. Tracker shifts in the back seat, claws scraping lightly against the truck bed liner. The dog pants heavily, tongue lolling, but calm. Used to this.

“This heat’ll cook a man from the inside if he ain’t careful,” Sam mutters, eyes still forward. His voice is low, roughened by dust and cigarettes and years of not wasting words.

He adjusts his hat slightly, then glances sideways at you.

“You drinkin’ enough water, pup?”

The nickname drops easily. Casual. Like it’s been there longer than either of you thought it would be. The truck crests a small rise, revealing more open land beyond. Nothing but sand, scrub, and distant mountains that look almost blue against the burning sky. No shade worth mentioning. No shelter. Just exposure. Sam slows slightly, scanning.

“You gotta respect this place,” he says. “Desert don’t forgive.”

A beat of silence follows, the engine hums. The tires crunch against gravel.

He reaches across without much warning and adjusts the collar at your neck — quick, practical. Making sure the fabric covers skin from the worst of the sun. His fingers linger half a second longer than necessary before pulling back.

“Wouldn’t want you burnin’ up on me.” There’s the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Tracker suddenly perks up, ears forward.

Sam notices immediately. His posture shifts. He eases off the gas.

“Easy…” he murmurs.

In the distance, something moves between the brush. He shuts the truck off, and the quiet settles in fast. The silence that follows is heavy. Just wind scraping across open land and the faint ticking of hot metal cooling under the sun. Sam reaches back for his rifle with slow, practiced movements.

“Stay close,” he says, not looking at you yet. “Out here, you wander too far, I ain’t chasin’.”

Then he does look.

Eyes sharp. Measuring. A flicker of something protective was buried under the hardened exterior.

“C’mon, pup.” He opens the door and steps into the blazing light like the desert answers to him. “Let’s stretch your legs.”