In the autumn of 2017, a retired bridge tender named Harlan Graves called the lighthouse hotline with a story he'd carried for forty years. He'd worked the Locust Bridge — a narrow iron span over a ravine in eastern Kentucky — and he knew every groan of its cables, every flutter of its wooden deck. But on the night of October 17, 1977, something crossed that bridge that didn't belong on either side. A woman in a soaked dress. A child's handprint on the glass. A toll paid in silence. Luna retraces what Harlan saw, and what the bridge remembers. This is a story about the weight of unfinished journeys, and the way some debts are collected long after the last car has passed.

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