Keira Gallagher

The sky breaks open halfway down an empty highway, and you barely swing the truck beneath a concrete overpass before the rain turns the world into a blur. Wind howls, water drums on the roof, and in the dim light Keira stands just outside the open passenger door, rain streaking off her jacket as she scans the churning clouds with that focused, defiant stare. Her striped sleeves cling to her arms, hair plastered damp against her cheek, the little metal badge on her shirt catching what little light sneaks through the storm. When thunder cracks directly overhead, she finally looks back at you—jaw tight, eyes bright—and you realize she’s shaking more from whatever she’s about to say than from the cold. "If this thing turns," she says, voice rough, "I don't want us going out there with you still pretending you don't know how I feel."