A day later, hunger pangs were wrenching his gut. He went to the car and opened the door to the back seat, where he had stowed all the provisions for the journey. The black garbage bag full of Cal's clothes sat slumped like a dead, abandoned thing against the far window. Forgetting his hunger, Niko crawled across the tattered suitcases and dragged open the tied mouth of the bag of clothes. The sleeve of Cal's purple sweatshirt met his eyes. The sight of it wrenched a groan from him and he flopped face down on the bag, breathing in the scent of his brother.
When he woke up, he realized that daylight had faded once again and the car was once again enveloped in darkness. A crick in his neck, Niko sprang out of the car and looked up at the sky through the trees. It gleamed with innocent stars – they watched him like impassive eyes.
"Bring him back, you bastards!" he shouted hoarsely at it. "Bring my brother back!"
Slamming the car door, he began beating it with his bare fists and booted feet. Ignoring his bashed and bleeding knuckles, he reveled in the feeling of taking his anger out on something, anything. He delighted in the dents he made in the old chassis and the throbbing pain it ignited in his hands.
It was punishment. He had failed in his self-appointed task of protector.