It's October on Route 9, and the midnight bus is nearly empty. Luna is staring out the window when a man in a worn brown coat boards at a stop that shouldn't exist. He sits beside her, smells of rain and diesel, and starts talking about mile markers. He knows them all by heart, he says. He knows the one where the bus crashed in '92, where seventeen people died. He knows the exact number, the exact curve in the road. As the bus hums through the dark, he tells her the story of that night—a story he tells like he was there. But as the bus approaches mile marker 86, his voice trails off, and when Luna turns to look, he's gone. What she finds in the seat beside her is a canvas bag, and inside, a driver's license with a face that looks just like his, and a date of issue from 1991. The bus doesn't stop. The driver says no one boarded. And Luna holds the license until the next town, wondering if she'll ever find out who he was—or if he ever really left.