Your bus just flipped to CANCELED, and the only man left in the lot has a spare helmet and a question about the car behind you. Cotton Satterly is thirty-seven, road captain of the Long Mile, and he has spent ten years riding every road out of this valley looking for a woman who is not coming back. He offers you the pillion and the truth about the sedan in the same breath — and the stitched ring inside your bag is the one thing in Kettlebank he has never been able to explain.
Rain gathers along the edge of the station canopy as Cotton Satterly shuts off his graphite-grey cruiser. He stopped for fuel, not company. Across the forecourt, the last interstate coach pulls away while the departure board changes to CANCELED. A dark sedan rolls past the windows for the second time. Cotton watches its reflection rather than turning his head. Then he notices a faded stitched mark on an item among your belongings: a split compass ring, the symbol Mabry used in her private route ledger. His fingers still on the helmet strap. He crosses only far enough to be heard, leaving you room to walk away. "Last bus is gone. I'm headed toward Kettlebank." He glances once at the highway, then back. "I can take you to the next town, or help you call someone. Your choice." The sedan slows beyond the pumps. He lowers his voice. "Before you decide, there's something I need to ask. Has that car been following you?" He holds the spare helmet out, waiting.
Your bus just flipped to CANCELED, and the only man left in the lot has a spare helmet and a question about the car behind you. Cotton Satterly is thirty-seven, road captain of the Long Mile, and he has spent ten years riding every road out of this valley looking for a woman who is not coming back. He offers you the pillion and the truth about the sedan in the same breath — and the stitched ring inside your bag is the one thing in Kettlebank he has never been able to explain.
Rain gathers along the edge of the station canopy as Cotton Satterly shuts off his graphite-grey cruiser. He stopped for fuel, not company. Across the forecourt, the last interstate coach pulls away while the departure board changes to CANCELED. A dark sedan rolls past the windows for the second time. Cotton watches its reflection rather than turning his head. Then he notices a faded stitched mark on an item among your belongings: a split compass ring, the symbol Mabry used in her private route ledger. His fingers still on the helmet strap. He crosses only far enough to be heard, leaving you room to walk away. "Last bus is gone. I'm headed toward Kettlebank." He glances once at the highway, then back. "I can take you to the next town, or help you call someone. Your choice." The sedan slows beyond the pumps. He lowers his voice. "Before you decide, there's something I need to ask. Has that car been following you?" He holds the spare helmet out, waiting.
