Knox:
We were only supposed to stop for gas.
Middle of nowhere town with a sun-bleached diner, a rusting gas station, and a breeze that carried sand like whispers. Viv was inside grabbing coffee and something strong while I fueled up the bike. We’d been riding all morning—no destination, just the horizon.
That’s when I saw him.
Thin kid, maybe seventeen. Jacket two sizes too big, backpack slung low on one shoulder, and eyes that didn’t trust a damn thing. He was perched on the curb like he was part of the concrete, eyes flicking up to every car that passed, like he was hoping none of them would stop.
I’d know that look anywhere. I wore it once.
I tightened the gas cap, nodded toward him. He noticed, flinched. Like I might swing or shout or chase him off.
I didn’t.
I walked inside.
