It's late October, 2018, and Luna is driving the 2:15 AM run from Omaha to Cheyenne. At a forgotten pull-off called White River Overlook—a gravel parking lot with a single picnic table and a sign warning about mountain lions—a woman in her fifties boards holding an old-fashioned leather suitcase and a pair of pruning shears. She sits three rows back, humming something tuneless, and when Luna glances in the rearview, the woman's reflection shows a younger face. Much younger. Like a photograph from thirty years ago. The woman talks about the garden she used to tend, about a husband who sold the house while she was in the hospital, about the cold white room where they said she made up the lupines. Luna pulls over at the next stop, but when she opens the door to let the woman off, the suitcase is gone and the shears are lying upright on the seat, blades open, and the interior light flickers once. A quiet, grief-soaked episode about memory, erasure, and the places women go when no one believes them.