Luna returns to Rest Stop 9 on a humid August night in 2019, pulled off Route 17 by a headache and a flickering check-engine light. The vending machine hums, the payphone is silent, and a man in a grey coat sits at the far table—too still, too light, as if the air around him has gone thin. He tells her he's been waiting for a ride for three days, but his hands are clean, his boots are dry, and he doesn't cast a shadow under the sodium light. Luna offers him a granola bar. He takes it, but the wrapper never crinkles. This is a story about hunger that has nothing to do with food, about the things that sit in rest stops not because they're lost, but because they've already finished traveling.

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