The hum of engine and rubber over asphalt played on, giving little space for silence. Though the conversation waned, the journey babbled its own story. Robin imagined the things this truck had witnessed over the years. It likely never hosted anyone like him, though.

Robin gazed upon Dusty as he guided the wheel into an easy drift to another lane. Visions of his bestial form fell away, leaving behind a picture Robin wanted to cut out and collect. The older man was everything he had admired in his youth. Confident, relaxed, masculine. Dusty’s eyes fell softly over the road, like a cowboy on his trusted steed, the path ahead of him needing little focus. He was a high aspiration, one that seemed fantastical, yet he was right here beside him.

Still, the memories of that night echoed. Robin shook his head. If only they would drop from his brain like the math equations he learned in school. Were Dusty a normal man, things would be a lot easier, probably for both of them. Maintaining his wariness of the sleeping beast, Robin trained his body to occupy as little space as possible. He slowly tugged his backpack nearer when he noticed one of the straps straying toward the older man’s thigh.

Robin pushed up his glasses, leaving his fingers to linger around his lip. The scene outside changed little. Forest gave way to fields, laying a mottled carpet leading to distant hills. Pastures and vineyards occasionally breezed past, offering glimpses of the reach of man. Though it was a world away from the concrete maze of LA, Robin had been immersed in similar landscapes for the past few days. His eyes snapped to his newest discovery.

“So …” said Robin, “what’s this seasonal work you do?”

“I work at a placer gold mine in the mountains from spring through early autumn. We shut down once the heavy rains come, and we hightail it outta there before the snow.”

Robin’s brows raised. “Whoa. You aren’t joking?”

“Why would I joke about that?”

“Figures you’d do something rugged,” said the young man with a smile kept to himself. He wiped it away. “Not that I ought to stereotype you or anything.”

“Well, it’s easier if weers can be away from the general populace, so it fits.”

“I’m not gonna use the ‘p-word’, but do you have a family unit?”

“None that I live with. My parents are gone. Closest thing I got is the mining crew.”

“Do they know about you?”

“Actually, we’re all weers.”

“No way! How’d you all find each other?”

“Kismet. Chance meetings at bars, a bakery for one. If we get close enough, or if we’re in a place without many distractions, we can smell each other.”

“What do weers smell like?”

Dusty thought for a moment. “You know when you’re recovering from a cold and you got a glob of snot in your nose? Not big enough to fill your nostril, but big enough to smell—it smells like that, a tainted mucus.”

“Wild.” Robin cocked his head. “What about when you can’t smell each other? Can you tell then?”

Dusty’s eyes darted to the mirrors. A part of him wanted to keep things secret. Not that there was some unspoken code among werewolves, rather Dusty was taught to keep his mouth shut lest something return to bite his ass. However, he could not fathom what harm Robin could do.

“There’s slang we use, and a sort of code amongst weers in the West to spot each other if we want to be found or to just advertise.”

“Oh, like the handkerchief code.”

“Y-yeah, just not sexual.”

Robin chuckled. The idea of an entirely separate werewolf culture warmed him. He felt especially lucky to learn about it, even with mere crumbs of information.

“I’m surprised you even know about that.”

A soft snort passed over Dusty’s smirk. “I work with rocks, I don’t live under them.” A piece of his chest lifted, having revealed a small tidbit about his other side.

Robin mused, staring up at the cabin ceiling. “So if there are enough to have a code here, how many weers exist in the world?”

“Hard to say.” Dusty rolled his shoulders. “We don’t take a census. And lots of us like to keep our true natures a secret.”

”I hear that.”

The older man’s jaw flexed. “For decades there have been recipes floating around for drug cocktails that suppress the wolf. Some folks take ‘em all their lives to keep from ever turning.”

”Dang.” Robin’s brows furrowed. “That …” He sucked his tongue. “That really sucks.”

Dusty’s gaze flashed to Robin. They shared a breath. Before either could blink, the truck flounced over a small pothole and the weight dropped into the space between them. The older man returned his attention out the windshield.

Billboards and exit signs flew past, occasionally flashing with the sun now out in full force. Dusty tried the radio, but couldn’t tune into anything palatable.

Robin lowered his window, letting the wind flutter his hair. “Wish I could hook up my phone to your dash. I have some songs on there.”

“Like what?”

Robin listed titles and artists Dusty had never heard of.

The older man rubbed the steering wheel. “It’s all right. I don’t usually listen to music much while driving anyway. I prefer talk programs.”

Robin curtailed a snicker.

“I won’t torture you with that. But you’re comfortable otherwise?”

“Oh yeah! No need to worry about me.” Robin smiled, forbearing the urge to let fly more werewolf questions.

Dusty nodded before surveying his dashboard, reading the instruments. The routes in this area were etched into his memory, and he combed through the lines in his mind.

“Don’t mind me getting gas,” he mumbled as he turned off the road to a station situated beside an automotive shop.

Robin shrugged. “Who am I to object?”

An assembly of hubcaps hung along a wire fence ushered their entry toward the refuge. Pulling under aging metal eaves, Dusty deftly wove between two vehicles to a free pump. As he went about initiating payment, Robin glanced at the food mart several feet away. The lottery sign announced small jackpots for the week. It wasn’t worth going in for any tickets. A whir of machinery and tools from the shop next door drowned out any birdsong from the nearby trees. Closing his eyes, Robin waited for Dusty to finish the routine.

The truck shifted as the older man leaned his weight on the frame. Chancing a peek, the young man turned his head ever so slightly. Casual as all get out, Dusty’s denim shoulders slid down to the deep orange paint. Marks of dirt still clung to the fabric from the events of the night before. Robin almost grinned until he saw the price displayed above the pump. The numbers continued to ascend.

Turning to see his paling face, Dusty chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said through the windshield. “You’ll be seeing this a lot. She’s quite the glutton.” He patted the hood.

Robin stiffened. He palmed the shape of his wallet in his pocket, quite sure it wasn’t full enough to feed their steed over the trip. A bit of his stomach dropped to the floor. Once the tank was full, the older man returned behind the wheel. 

“Yeah, she wasn’t built to go cross-country on a dime,” he chirped.

Robin’s mouth went dry. “I—uh, wasn’t expecting the mileage to be like this.”

“I’ll cover gas.”

“Then I will take care of our lodging,” Robin blurted. Relief revived his tongue, only for it to then freeze mid-thought. He wrung his hands. “Uh, you don’t mind sharing a room, right? We’ll get two beds, of course.”

“I’ve shared a single trailer with three other guys for years at the mine. Won’t bother me.”

A layer of worry dissolved from Robin’s muscles. “It’ll help a lot. Thank you. I’m a really quiet roommate, don’t you worry.”

As they pulled out of the gas station, a reflection of light from a hanging hubcap struck the side of Dusty’s face, illuminating his smile. “Trust me. Nothing’s louder than three snoring weers.”