Page 1 of Finding Gideon
Chapter 1
Gideon
I didn’t need the ‘check engine’ light to know something was wrong. The clunking had gotten worse over the last ten miles, and now the whole truck felt like it was running on spite.
I eased up on the gas, rolling past a thin stand of valley oaks clinging to the edge of the two-lane road. Beyond them stretched mile after mile of sunburnt pasture, the grass brittle and gold, a few black cattle standing motionless in the heat like they’d given up on the idea of shade.
That’s when I saw it.
At first, I figured it was an old feed sack someone had tossed out, rumpled and forgotten by the side of the road. Then it lifted its head.
I hit the brakes, tires groaning in protest, and pulled off onto the narrow shoulder. Gravel spat from under the wheels, pinging against the undercarriage as the truck lurched to a stop.
“Hang on, buddy,” I muttered, pushing the door open.
The heat slapped me the moment I stepped out. August in California wasn’t messing around. The sun had dipped low, but the air still pressed in heavy, smelling faintly of dust, dry weeds, and the hot-metal tang of my engine.
I jogged the few feet to the crumpled shape. It was a dog. Medium-sized. Short coat. Ears too big for his face. A wiry little mutt—maybe part terrier, part something scrappy and stubborn.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, crouching slowly. My knees popped in protest. “You okay?”
He blinked at me. Lifted his head just enough to make my chest tighten.
He wasn’t wearing a collar.
Of course.
“Are you out here all by yourself?” I reached out, kept my movements slow.
He didn’t growl. Didn’t flinch. Just watched me like he wasn’t sure if I was a threat or a promise.
Garrett and I used to find stray animals like this all the time. Back when we were kids and had more heart than sense. We’d sneak them into the garage, feed them scraps, give them names. Pretend we were changing the world. Like patching up broken things could make up for the way our parents looked right through us.
“You got a name?” I asked the dog. He sniffed my hand, then licked it once. “Guess not. We’ll have to fix that.”
I scooped him up. He was lighter than he looked. Too light.
“This is a bad idea,” I said aloud, heading back to the truck. “Terrible, even.”
He didn’t argue. Just curled into my chest like he’d decided I was good enough.
Inside the cab, it was hotter than outside, the kind of heat that made your skin stick to the seat. I set him on the passenger side and yanked open the glovebox. There was nothing. Just some old napkins, a melted pen, and a granola bar I’d forgotten was there.
I peeled open the wrapper and broke off a chunk.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” I said, holding the bar out. He took it gently, like he knew it was a big deal.
I leaned back in the driver’s seat, closed my eyes for a second.
The engine made a sad little wheeze when I tried to start it again. Then nothing.
I stared at the dashboard. The fuel gauge was hovering on empty, and the battery light glowed stubbornly red.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Of course it picked now to die.
I yanked the door open again, popped the hood, and stared into the engine like it might magically fix itself if I looked disappointed enough.
