At 2:14 a.m., a text arrived from Sarah’s number: We need to talk. He tried to call; voicemail again. He wrote a paragraph, deleted it, sent three words instead: Please. I’m here.
Another text: a dropped pin, three exits south, a rest area with a picnic table and a bathroom that had seen better centuries.
He drove there like prayers were gasoline and shame was a shoulder belt pulled too tight across his chest.
