December 1987. A 24-hour pharmacy on the edge of Moline, Illinois, where the fluorescent lights hum and the aisles stretch empty past midnight. Luna's cousin took the graveyard shift for extra money, and for three weeks she learned the rhythms of the place—the crackle of the police scanner, the shuffle of insomniacs, the rattle of the drive-through window. But there was a customer who came every night at 2:47 AM, always the same request, always paid with exact change. The pharmacist said he'd been coming for years, before she was born. And one night, the clock stopped.

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