She pulled off the road when the heat waves started looking like ghosts. The sky stretched wide and empty, except for a hawk riding the currents, waiting for something small to make a mistake.
At the edge of the lot sat a diner, its neon sign gasping its last blue breath. Inside, the air was thick with coffee steam and the scent of sunburned vinyl. A radio crackled on the counter, whispering half-forgotten country songs.
She ordered iced tea and sat by the window, tracing patterns in the condensation on her glass. Across the room, an old man unfolded a road map, smoothing it like he was handling something sacred. His eyes flicked up, met hers.
“You waiting for something?” he asked.
She thought about it.
“Not sure,” she said.
The old man grinned like he knew a secret. He pointed out the window, past the pumps, past the heat shimmer.
“You ever notice how signals get stronger when you stop moving?”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t leave, either.