Knox:
The diner smelled like fresh grease and day-old coffee, just the way I liked it. Nora had filled our plates so full I had to unbutton my jeans halfway through the burger, and Viv stole every one of my fries with that sly little grin she wore when she knew damn well I’d let her.
We were full. Content.
The kind of easy, quiet happiness that settles into your bones and makes you feel a little dangerous—like if you breathe too deep, it might vanish.
Viv was driving us home in the beat-up sedan we’d borrowed from the motel. Radio humming low, desert wind teasing through the cracked window. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular—just watching the horizon melt into gold—when I saw it.
Old chrome glinting in the sunlight.
A man stood at the edge of his driveway, a dusty 1965 Ha
