Luna recalls a winter night in 1996, when she was nineteen and working the register at a gas station outside Dunmore, West Virginia. A man in a brown coat came in just before midnight, bought a cup of coffee, and left footprints in the linoleum that never dried. Over the next hour, she watched him walk the same loop outside the station—around the pumps, past the payphone, back into the dark—each time leaving the same wet prints, even as the snow stopped falling. The deputy who stopped by said there was no man, only prints leading into the woods, and when she went home that morning, she found a single step of wet mud on her porch, facing her door. No closure, just the shape of a boot that never belonged to anyone she knew.