In the fall of 2022, a woman named Carla pulled into the Lost Creek General Store on a Tuesday night, asking for directions to a route that didn't exist on any map. Luna was behind the counter. Carla was wearing a green jacket with the hood up, even though it wasn't raining. She smelled like wet pine and something metallic. She kept looking over her shoulder at the dark window. When Luna told her there was no such road, Carla showed her a hand-drawn map on a paper napkin—the ink was smudged, but the destination was circled twice in red. Luna didn't recognize the place name. She checked the county atlas, the old fire service maps, even the geological survey charts. Nothing. But the napkin map had a date in the corner: next Tuesday. And when Carla left, Luna found a compass on the counter—not from the store—with its needle spinning slow. She still has it. She still doesn't know what route Carla was looking for. But sometimes, late at night, the compass settles on a bearing she's never seen before.

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