The rest area was a painting of emptiness: soda machine hum, a map behind scratched plexiglass, a bulletin board with lost dogs and church bake sales. He parked, waited, watched his reflection age in the side window.
Footsteps? The wind, probably. A semi braked on the far ramp, hissing like a whale. He checked the pin again. Same spot. Same ache.
Something glinted under the picnic table—a keychain charm, the brass sunflower he’d given her in June when everything felt easier than this.
