I run deliveries three nights a week for a regional distributor. The route takes me through Mourner's Crossing on a regular loop, and Speicher's is right off the main road. The gravel lot's usually half-full with pickups and occasionally Sheriff Doyle's cruiser parked out front when I pull in around eleven.

I get the same thing every time because it doesn't sit heavy the rest of the shift. Cheeseburger, no tomato. Cherry Coke. They used to know me by the order.

Last week I got there at ten fifty-eight. Dwayne Andersson's truck was already parked in the lot when I pulled in. I took a stool at the counter.

Linda was behind it. New girl, name tag and notepad ready. She didn't recognize me.

"Cheeseburger, no tomato. Cherry Coke," I told her. "I'm Cole."

She wrote it down and called it back to the kitchen. The grill smelled the same when the patty hit. I checked my phone while I waited. There was a text from my husband Jay asking if he should wait up, so I told him I'd be late and set the phone face down next to the napkin dispenser.

When the plate came out the cheese had already started to congeal a little at the edges. The bun was damp from the steam and onions. The red plastic cup was sweating. I ate slow. The grease from the cheese got on my fingers and I had to wipe them twice before I paid cash and took the receipt.

On the way out I dropped the napkins in the trash by the door. There was already a paper plate in there with half a burger and the tomato slices pushed off to the side. Same wrapper as mine.

I folded the receipt and stuck it in the glove box behind the route packet before I started the engine. The total was a couple dollars higher than what I usually pay.

The rest of the night was normal. I finished the route, checked in at the depot, and made it home before morning. Jay was up with coffee going. He asked how the run went and I said fine. Then he said I'd called him from Speicher's. He could hear the Coke machine in the background, the one with the bad compressor whine, and somebody calling an order over the grill.

I pulled out my phone and showed him the call log. Nothing after the text. He looked at the screen for a second, then at me, and said maybe he'd been half asleep and dreamed it. We let it go.

This week when I pulled in, Dwayne's truck was there again, but I didn't see Dwayne inside. I took a stool at the counter. Linda was already reaching for the ticket pad when she saw me.

"Usual, Cole?" she asked.

"Coffee," I said.

She looked at me for half a second, then set the red plastic cup under the fountain anyway. Cherry Coke came out. I didn't correct her again. She wrote the ticket and the cook started it before she tore the paper off the wheel. When the plate came it had tomato on it. I told her I don't eat tomato. She looked at the ticket, then at me. "Must've written it down wrong." She made another one. It tasted exactly like the first one. I paid and on the way out the trash can had another plate with tomato pushed off to the side.

While she rang me out she glanced toward the empty booth by the window. "Dwayne said your Tuesday run must be rough."

"I don't run Tuesdays," I said.

She didn't answer. Just gave me the receipt and looked past me at the door.

The receipt in the glove box was a couple dollars higher than it should have been. Same as last time.

After I dropped the trailer at the depot I sat in the cab a minute before I went inside to sign off. I opened the glove box to put the new receipt behind the route packet and there were four of them folded together. I only ever keep the last one. All cash. All stamped between 11:02 and 11:09. Three of them looked like mine. The fourth was from a Tuesday. One had a line at the bottom I didn't remember.

REGULAR 2.00

I texted Jay that I was heading home. He didn't answer right away.

When I got in he was already asleep. In the morning he asked if I stopped at Speicher's again. I said yeah. He said I called him from there. Asked if the back door was locked and then said my order was ready so he had to go. He also said I called him sweetheart at the end, which I don't do.

"Don't stop there next week," he said.

I told him I had to eat somewhere.

"Eat at the depot."

"The vending machine has jerky and powdered donuts."

"Then eat powdered donuts."

He didn't say anything else. He just nodded and went to bed, taking his coffee mug with him.

I checked the log. There was a call at eleven oh seven lasting two minutes. I don't remember making it.

On Wednesday afternoon I called Speicher's from the depot office. Linda answered on the third ring. I asked what a cheeseburger and Cherry Coke came to, cash. She gave me the price I remembered, two dollars less than what was on the receipts.

"What if there's tomato?" I asked.

"Tomato's no charge," she said.

I looked at the four receipts spread across the desk blotter.

"You okay, Cole?"

I hadn't told her my name.

Behind her, someone tore a ticket off the wheel.

I decided I wasn't stopping at Speicher's on the next run. I packed a sandwich and a thermos of coffee before I left the house. Jay didn't say anything when he saw the bag, but he looked at it for a second longer than usual.

The depot ran late. A trailer swap took longer than it should have. While I was waiting, Jay texted me.

thanks for skipping it tonight

I looked at the lunch bag on the passenger seat. I hadn't texted him since I left the house.

I missed the window I usually use for a break. The sandwich had been sitting in the cab all afternoon and the bread had gone soft. The coffee was cold. By the time I was back on the route my stomach was turning and I needed to piss. The only place open with a bathroom and something hot was Speicher's. I told myself I'd only use the bathroom and get coffee to go. Nothing else.

When I pulled in, Dwayne's truck was already there. I went straight to the bathroom without looking at the counter. On the way out I kept my eyes on the door, but Linda called my name anyway.

"Cole? You want the usual?"

I said no. I said I was just using the bathroom.

The ticket was already in her hand. The cook was dropping the patty before she even turned around. I stood there a second, then sat down because walking out felt more ridiculous than staying. When the plate came it had tomato on it. I could see the red edge under the bun. I thought about sending it back, but Linda had already turned away and the cook was scraping the grill. I ate it. It tasted the same. I paid and left the receipt on the counter without looking at the total.

On the way out I saw Dwayne getting into his truck. He stopped with one hand on the door.

"You forget something last time?" he asked.

"What?"

"You came back in after you left." He looked past me at the windows, then shook his head. "Never mind."

He got in and drove off before I could answer.

At the depot, before I went inside to sign off, I opened the glove box for the route packet. The receipt was already behind it with the others.

Inside, Gayle had the clipboard waiting at the window.

"You already signed off," she said.

"No, I didn't."

She turned the clipboard around. My initials were on the return line. Same blocky C, same hard slash through the other initial. The time beside them was 11:07.

I held my hand over the initials, close enough to check the shape. Same heavy downstroke. Same drag at the end.

"I just got here."

Gayle looked past me toward the lot. "Then I don't know what to tell you."

When I got home Jay was still up. He asked if I stopped at Speicher's. I said yeah.

"You said you weren't going to."

I told him I know.

He looked at the lunch bag still zipped on the counter, then went to bed and left the kitchen light on.

Tonight I'm sitting in the lot at Speicher's with the engine idling. Through the window I can see someone at the counter in a white shirt, sitting on the stool I always take. The red plastic cup is already by his hand. He sits with his shoulders high and stiff, the way I do after a long night behind the wheel. He reaches for the ticket wheel without looking. I know that reach. Same one I use on the clipboard at the end of every run.

The order's already on the wheel. I know what it says.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.

It's Jay.

You just called me from inside. I could hear them call your order. Are you coming home after this or not?

I don't check the log this time.

I haven't gone in yet. The gravel's quiet under the idling engine, and I can smell the grill from here.

Part Two

I got off work a while ago. I’ve been at my desk going through my journals. I want to find the right story to tell you all first - but you know - it's kind of hard to pick something when everything's all - the seagull feet are back or the inside cloud clogged the air conditioner. Sometimes it's even shocking for me to see the line of reality I dance on.

I’ve decided instead of picking something out, I'm just going to tell you about last week. The work week starts on Tuesday, so I’ll start there. If I recall right - it was a fairly normal week. Well not normal - things haven't been normal for a long time - but it was an average week is what I’m trying to say. If I just start I think you'll get the idea. So here it is - a transcription of everything that was in my notebook from last Tuesday.

***

Tuesday, June 23, 2026

 

12:50 PM: Got to JOE’S early.

Manny was out front.

He was wet.

Said he went for a swim but I know better.

Still - I’ve learned not to question the pruniness of his

skin or the smell of seaweed on his mustache.

I did question his cough though.

He spewed something black.

Said he thinks he swallowed some harbor water.

Gross.

 

1:22 PM: Supplies for the day arrived.

Don’t know where they came from.

No truck dropped them off.

I mean - I know no truck ever drops them off,

but it’s still weird.

They're just there - out on the dock.

At least this time nothing moved inside the crate.

I helped Manny take it into the kitchen and as he was

prying it open and taking out fresh fruits and

expensive wines and exotic meats,

I asked him a question.

“Why do you prep all this stuff? You know hardly

anyone ever comes.”

“Prep - don't prep,” he said. “The crate comes either

way. I just want to eat good at night. Don't you?”

“Good? When it comes from you?”

Manny didn't like the joke.

I had another question.

“Where do they come from anyway?”

“What?”

“The crates - where do they come from?”

“Don't know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know.”

“You don't put in orders?”

“No.”

“Do you have a contact?”

“No.”

“Have you ever asked?”

“No.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“No.”

I don’t think much goes on in Manny’s head.

 

1:43 PM: I checked the faucet for ooze.

Nothing - but the smell was still there.

It wasn’t tricking me this time.

I took the stretched-out coat hanger I made last

night and shoved it up the faucet, then yanked it out.

I got the bastard.

Foot-long this one.

I threw him back in the harbor.

 

2:16 PM: I turned on the TVs behind the bar.

The only channel coming in shows a man.

He’s naked and tied to a chair.

He’s shaking - someone put tape over his mouth.

A little clock counts down in the corner.

I think he knows it.

I guess something's up with the cable box.

Chico won't be happy.

 

2:48 PM: Thought I saw something coming out

of the toilet in the men's room.

Maybe it was just the lack of sleep.

I don’t know anymore.

 

3:03 PM: Nope - definitely not the sleep.

There is definitely something in the toilets.

 

3:15 PM: New hire arrived.

Funny - I don't remember hiring him.

Said his name’s Chase. I told him it was nice to meet

him and he looked at me weird.

“We met before - you know - when you hired me?”

“I hired you?”

“Yes - you. We literally stood right here dude.”

I checked my notebook and sure enough - there’s the

entry.

--

9:43 PM: Hired Chase.

Seems a little weird,

but he wears metal T-shirts

and is in school for music.

Maybe hiring him will make me look tough?

Plus he didn’t react to Sideways Bob - so that’s

good.

--

How’d that get away from me?

That was only a few days ago.

Would I really forget hiring a whole person?

Am I really getting that bad?

Either way - he told me he's a musician.

Plays gigs at the hotel sometimes.

Needs some extra cash for a new guitar.

I told him to clean out the beer cooler.

Gave him the electric prod - you know, just in case -

but he looked confused.

I pushed him on anyways.

Gosh - how long will this one last?

 

3:35 PM: There’s a man outside.

He’s waiting to come in.

He knocked on the door but I ignored him.

Does he know we don’t open until four?

I don’t open early for anyone.

Anyways - I put an out of order sign on the men’s

room. I hope he isn’t waiting for that.

 

3:55 PM: I went out back before opening.

I wanted to look out the windows.

I like to watch the planes as they lift.

It’s my favorite way to pass the day.

Today the airport moved good.

It felt like multiple lifetimes squeezed into those few

minutes, each plane a whole life I imagined. At least -

I have to say imagined, even though it really felt like I

lived them.

First I went on an adventure in the Amazon,

then I climbed a mountain in Japan, and finally - I fell

in love in Mexico.

I hoped each one would come true.

Maybe not here - but somewhere else - in some other

life where I found the courage to go out there and

face the world.

There has to be somewhere else - right?

Is it possible that all versions of me are here - in the

bar? It can’t be - can it?

Anyways - the guy’s knocking again.

I guess it’s time to open the doors.

 

4:10 PM: The man rushed in as soon as I opened

the doors. Kind of rude, don’t you think?

He looked nervous when he sat - but excited too.

Asked for a shot.

Took it immediately then asked for another.

“Nerves?” I asked.

“Waiting for my date,” he said.

“Oh yeah? What's she look like?”

“Tall and brunette - and she’s got striking eyes and

beautiful curves and…”

The man started to wax poetic about her and I

listened, but a man can only hear of another’s muse

for so long before it gets… awkward.

Anyway - I wish him the best.

Sounds like he’s meeting Celia.

 

4:26 PM: Chase emerged from the walk-in.

He was defeated but alive.

He asked if we had another battery for the prod.

I showed him the supplies.

“So many legs,” he whispered under his breath.

“Go for the source,” I said.

It was the only advice I had.

He nodded solemnly.

I'm not sure he actually listened.

I just hope I don’t have to clean him up.

 

4:33 PM: Manny wanted me to try his soup.

I told him no - not after the last time.

Don’t need to go speaking another language for no

reason.

 

4:48 PM: Celia arrived.

Her date introduced himself.

They've been talking for a while.

I swear - at some point I saw her whisper something

in his ear, and I swear when she did, I saw her put

something in his drink. I swear they both smiled.

Something’s up.

 

5:15 PM: Chico sauntered in half-drunk.

Wanted me to put on the game.

I told him no. Something about a man chained to a

chair didn’t seem to match the lovebird mood

between Celia

and her date.

Chico begged to differ.

“A man tied up? That could be very erotic,” he said.

What is wrong with this man?

 

5:40 PM: Chase finished with the beer cooler.

Took out the whole colony.

I gotta say - I'm impressed.

Didn’t take this one for a natural - but hey - I can be

wrong sometimes.

“Good job,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, then he joked, “you know - I’ve

played a video game or two… I just might know what

I’m doing a little bit.”

We both laughed.

When we turned to the bar the clothes on Celia’s date

looked a little bigger. His feet now barely touched the

ground. And I swear - I swear his voice was a little

higher pitched.

“Does that guy look a little smaller to you?” asked

Chase.

I told him to mind his own business.

 

5:55 PM: Chico ordered a beer - IPA.

I went to pour it and something thick and red flowed out.

I hope it isn’t blood again.

I had Chase change the keg

and all seems to be back in order.

 

6:20 PM: Spent some time looking out the

window.

The Pirate was out there on the lower dock.

He was looking longingly into the sea.

I feel like he's waiting for something - but he won't

say.

Who knows - maybe he just likes the shimmer of the

sun on the waves.

What did he call it that one time?

‘God made sublimity’?

 

6:34 PM: I came back out front.

Celia's date was gone.

His clothes were on the stool.

I swore I heard a little squeak.

Celia had something small and flailing tucked in her

cheek.

She swallowed.

“Thank you boys,” she said as she got up and left a

big tip - same as always.

Chico asked if we could turn the game on now that

they were gone. After a few minutes of arguing with

him I said fuck it.

Fine - he won.

Let him enjoy the man.

 

6:35 PM: You would think Chico would

appreciate my hospitality - I did what he asked - but

now he's begging

me to turn it off. I will - but in a few more minutes.

Personally - I don’t see the big deal.

 

7:15 PM: Chico still doesn’t look right.

I asked him if he was okay.

Nothing.

I asked if he wanted a burger.

He only nodded his head.

I put the ticket in but Manny came out and asked me

to watch the grill.

Considering this was the first ticket we had all day,

I hope whatever he’s doing is important.

I saw him go down by the dock.

He hasn’t come back yet.

It’s been a while now.

I’m starting to worry.

I don’t want to put JOE’S in the hands of the new guy,

but I think I gotta check on him.

***

I’m sorry - I know we’re in the middle of the day and I hate to do this - but it’s getting late and Chase we have the wedding band setting up early tomorrow - so I need to stop typing and get some sleep. When I have some more time - I’ll tell you about the rest of Tuesday, but for now - I hope you’re happy Chico.

Part One

Part Three:

Coming Soon

My name is Teddy. I’m a deputy with the Mourner’s Crossing Sheriff’s Department, and Billy is my son. He’s ten. His best friend is Oliver Hallgarten. Most days they come as a pair. Billy gets close when something is sitting heavy in his head. Oliver holds things with both hands when he wants you to see what’s inside before he lets go.

They have a notebook they call the Cryptid Club. It’s full of rules they made up, drawings, sightings, things they half-believe, things they want to believe, and things I wish they had never noticed at all. Most of the time it’s harmless. Lately it hasn’t been.

Twenty minutes ago, another line showed up in that notebook. It wasn’t there before. Whatever is writing on those pages, it isn’t the boys. This needed to go somewhere before I touch the thing again.

Two nights ago, after dinner, Billy and Oliver came into the kitchen and set the notebook on the table between us. Billy was pressed right up against Oliver’s side. Oliver had the notebook flat between his hands like it might change its mind before anyone saw it.

Billy said they had seen a shape near the old maintenance shed at the edge of the park. Right away, he told me they didn’t go closer, which meant he knew the first question coming. Oliver said the air near the shed door felt wrong, like a room that had been shut up too long. Billy nodded before Oliver finished. He kept his shoulder against Oliver’s the whole time.

They didn’t cross the threshold. They wrote it down and came home. That’s one of their rules.

The pages looked normal while they stood there watching me. Billy’s writing was all lowercase, nearly no punctuation. Oliver’s was cleaner and tighter, with periods where they belonged. I told them Walter could look at it in the morning. Until then, they needed to stay close to the house. Neither of them argued.

Oliver stayed over because Simon and Rosemary were out late. Once the boys went upstairs, I put the notebook in the locked drawer in the kitchen, the one where we keep papers we don’t want them finding. Before bed, I opened the drawer one more time because leaving it alone was apparently beyond me. Same pages. Nothing new.

Yesterday morning, I took the notebook to Walter.

He didn’t tell me it was nothing. He read the shed entry twice, then read the rules around it. The same questions came out of him that had already come out of me. Did they touch the door. Did either of them hear anything. Did they smell anything. Did Billy say Sweet Jane had followed them home. Then he closed the notebook and said he’d drive out to the shed after his shift.

That was all. No speech. No sheriff voice. Just that quiet way he gets when he has stopped talking about a thing and started dealing with it. He told me to keep the boys in the yard or inside. Fine by me. There was no chance they were getting out of my sight.

When I got home, the notebook went back in the drawer. Before dinner, the pages still looked the same. I locked the drawer, made dinner, checked it again after. Nothing changed. That should have helped. It didn’t.

Last night around eleven, I opened the drawer again because sleep wasn’t happening. A drawing had appeared on the page after the shed entries. It showed the maintenance shed from above, like someone had been looking down from the roof or the trees. Two small figures stood in front of the door. One had Billy written next to it in Oliver’s handwriting. The other had Ollie. That drawing had not been there before dinner.

Upstairs, Oliver was awake in the guest room with a book open on his lap. He looked at my face and closed it before a word got said. When I asked if he had drawn the shed from above, he said no. He doesn’t like heights. They hadn’t gone that close anyway. Then he said, very carefully, “That wasn’t in there when we showed you.”

He didn’t look away from me.

I put the notebook back into the drawer. Sleep still didn’t come. Around two in the morning, the kitchen was dark and I had the drawer open again. A new line sat under the drawing. It was lowercase, almost like Billy’s handwriting, but not quite. The words looked like they were pretending to belong to him.

It said:

sheriff salty coconuts said no last time and he got shot for us so we are listening this time but the room behind the door is listening too

The drawer stayed open for a while after that. So did my mouth, probably.

Sheriff Salty Coconuts is Billy’s name for Walter Doyle, our sheriff. It started because of a Sea Salt Coconut Labubu Billy had, and Walter let it stick. The part about him getting shot is not a joke. A while back, Walter put himself between Billy, Oliver, and a gun. He was hit badly enough that nobody in this house talks about it lightly.

A little while later, Billy woke up from a nightmare. He came into the hall in his pajamas, breathing hard and trying not to make noise. He kept his mouth shut like making noise would make it worse. He said Sweet Jane was humming, but she sounded scared, like she was standing between the beds and the hallway trying to keep something from coming through.

The first thing out of my mouth was that it was just a dream. He was ten years old and shaking in my hallway, and one normal sentence was all there was to hand him before the rest of it had to be admitted.

Oliver came to Billy’s doorway and stopped there. He didn’t come in. He just stood where Billy could see him, making sure his friend was all right without stepping into the middle of it. Billy drank the water with both hands around the glass. Once he was back in bed, Oliver stayed in the doorway until Billy fell asleep again, then went back to the guest room without a word.

This morning, before the boys came downstairs, the notebook had another new page. One of their rules had been copied onto it, the one about not chasing glowing eyes. Someone had drawn a single line through it. Underneath, in that same almost-Billy handwriting, it said:

we should have knocked on the door instead of running home like babies

That is not Billy. That is not Oliver. Their rules all go the other way. Notice something. Write it down. Tell an adult. Don’t follow anything with glowing eyes. Don’t open doors in places you were warned about. Don’t knock just because something wants to be invited.

I took pictures of every page and sent them to Walter and Simon. I didn’t call Rosemary separately because I didn’t want to say any of it out loud while the boys were upstairs.

Twenty minutes ago, I opened the drawer again. One more line had appeared under the crossed-out rule.

he won’t be fast enough if you keep looking at the wrong door

I read it twice before I understood I had been standing there with the drawer open, staring at the page like the rest of the house didn’t exist. The kitchen door to the mudroom was shut. It had been shut all day. I knew that because I had checked it three times, once after breakfast, once after lunch, and once after I sent the pictures to Walter.

Upstairs, one of the bedroom doors clicked softly in its frame.

I closed the drawer without taking my eyes off the hallway. The lock had to wait. First came the listening. Nothing moved. No footsteps. No floorboards. No boys whispering when they were supposed to be reading. Then Billy called from upstairs, very quietly, “Dad?”

I locked the drawer. Upstairs came next.

Nobody here knows what’s writing in the notebook. Maybe it was already at the shed. Maybe the boys got its attention because they noticed it and came home like they were supposed to. Walter is out there right now with two other deputies. Billy and Oliver are upstairs. Every door in sight is shut.

The notebook should be burning already. That’s the truth.

So is this: opening that drawer again in the dark feels wrong. Carrying the notebook through the house feels wrong. Letting the boys see smoke outside and come to the window feels wrong. Finding out that burning it is the same as knocking feels worse.

Morning. Outside. Daylight. Walter back.

That’s when it burns.

If something in this town is watching the smallest people who notice it, other people should know what happened when two ten-year-olds followed their own rules and came straight home instead of trying to be brave about it.

Right now the notebook is in the locked drawer. Billy and Oliver are upstairs. The house feels heavier than it did two days ago. Every door I can see is shut. That’s all I know for sure.

Part One

I work at a bar. The place sits on a dock that spills out into the harbor. It's a strange place for a bar, you know? Out here, it’s only us, the shipyard, and the hotel up the street, so there’s not much of a reason to come by unless you got one.

You could drive past us a hundred times and never notice us. We’re so mundane - so brown - so bland - I bet we barely even pass for a bar. To be honest - I wouldn’t be surprised if people mistook us for part of the shipyard.

Just out front there’s a park that splits us off from the rest of town. Honestly - it feels we’re nothing but an urban afterthought. The park itself - it’s filled with oaks and a dog yard and a small playground, but you know - now that I've come to think of it - I’ve never seen any kids in the park. No dogs or runners. Just those damn tiger bunnies all the time.

There’s a sign out front too. It's supposed to say ‘JOE’S’, but I doubt it’s legible anymore - and I never learned who Joe was anyways. If you ever walked in, you’d find the place dressed in a nautical theme; fishing nets and boat wheels on the walls and a bar top made of old ship wood - the owner makes sure I mention it.

But just past the bar is the special thing that everybody misses out on by not coming in - the view. The back of JOE’S has huge windows that look out across the water to the airport. There’s always planes taking off - others landing. In a way - it’s like the whole world’s tangible in that view. Who knows? - maybe one day I’ll tell you the whole, I-woke-up-on-the-tarmac story, but first - who am I? You know - the person writing this.

Well - let’s just say I'm the bar man. If you ever sat down and ordered a drink - you got it from me. My name’s Dillon and I’ve worked here for as long as I remember. Wasn’t hard to get the job. Got it as soon as I moved here. The only thing I remember from the interview was the owner being a technophobe. Told me the place ran the old way - paper tickets and a cash register that looked more like a typewriter. I didn’t mind though - the pay was fine and he said I eat for free.

It took time to settle in. At first - the cook scared me. Tall. Muscles. A little mustache and sailor tattoos - but over the years, I’ve learned that that’s just Manny - though lately I am starting to suspect that he really does come from The Sea. He lives on a boat out back, but at night when closing down, I swear I hear him dive into the water and he does not come back up.

Oh and since I have to deal with the whole - robots-take-over-the-world paranoia with my boss - we don’t have any internet, and a signal is hard to catch by the harbor - so I don’t spend too much time scrolling. That’s okay - I spend most of my days reading - or cleaning - or dealing with the ooze that leaks from the faucet - or wrangling one of the more - how will I say it? - lively meat deliveries. Oh and lately, there’s that light in the closet that won’t turn off. I swear it's getting brighter. But if I’m not dealing with any of those things, I’m out back - looking through those giant windows. There’s always something to see. Truth is - I can't always tell you if it's real - but honestly - I've stopped asking anyways.

That’s actually why I’m here writing this. A while back - Chico - one of my regulars - said I always told the best stories. I told him that they weren’t stories - they were just my life - but that didn’t matter. He said I should start to share them anyway. Well me being me who doesn't like doing anything for no good reason, I responded with, “yeah right Chico - I’ll put it all up when the kraken comes out of the sea.”

Well - I hate to say it - but today after the ice machine was fixed and the repairman who replaced Randy left, I was here all alone at the end of the bar. I fell into one of those time slips. You know? - the kind where your mind fixes on something and the day just gets away from you. My gaze trained on the water as the sun got low on the horizon. That's when I saw it - a giant tentacle reached out into the fading light and plucked a helicopter from the sky. I instantly broke from my haze. How many hours had I lost? I didn’t know - I forgot to check the clock when I came through. Three? - four hours?

Well anyways I flipped the news on. Wanted to see if anyone was talking about what I’d just seen, but when I did - the anchors only argued over the details of last night's game. To be fair - it was a pathetic showing - and to be fair - weird things like this happen all the time. If you come into JOE’S you’re bound to see something strange, but I'll make you a martini so damn good that you're bound to forget it. So here I am - locked into writing this.

At least I have my notebooks. I've always got one by my side. Manny calls them my bibles. Sometimes he even calls me little priest. I try to write down as much as I can. If I don't - even I get lost, each day a blur of lines that all look the same. And sometimes? - I swear my days are longer than a day. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like my life is being stretched out like taffy.

What I do know is that I’ve been working here a long time. I don't know how long exactly - but I know it's been a while. I don’t know how old I am anymore or how many notebooks I've gone through. I don’t even know where I came from before all of this. Sometimes I wonder if there ever was a before. For some reason it all feels like an after.

Well anyways - I guess the best way for you to understand is for me to show you - so when I find some time between polishing glassware and checking to see if the impossibly circular pit in the basement has gotten any bigger - I'll tell you about one of my days, but for now - that pirate is back and I think he needs help tying his boots - you know - because of the hook hands - so I gotta go - but Chico - you son-of-a-bitch - I hope you enjoy this, because now I've got the task of figuring out what the hell this story even is.

Part Two

Part Three

Coming Soon

My girlfriend has always been a creative type. When we first started talking, it seemed like the conversation would always shift towards either sketching, drawing, or painting.

I found it admirable. I loved that she had something that meant so much to her. Something she could be passionate about. The more time went on, the more that passion grew.

It wasn’t until we started dating that she felt comfortable enough to show me her work, though. I love her more than anything in the world, but good lord, I hate to say it… she was not good.

Her shades were off. Her lines were crooked. Her portraits bordered on stick figures.

Of course, I didn’t want to let on exactly what I thought of what she was showing me, but I can only pretend so much.

That’s the thing, though, any time I offered her advice, she’d just get so defensive. She was just so convinced that she was gonna be “the next big thing” in the art world.

I wanted her to succeed. Of course I wanted her to succeed. But in order to do that, she just had to listen to me. I’m not an artist myself, but even as just an everyday Joe Shmoe, I could still see where she was falling short.

I’d nudge her. Critique her in the nicest possible way I could muster. And it only led to her becoming more closed off with her work.

Unfortunately, the more closed off she became with her work, the more closed off she became in general. It was like her main talking point. And here I was, feeling like an asshole for taking that away from her.

I tried apologizing to her and explaining that I was just trying to help her, but she’d just keep that same blank expression on her face.

“I’ll try to get better for you.”

That’s all she’d tell me.

I wanted to believe her, but it seemed like she wasn’t even trying anymore. I never saw her sketching. I never saw her drawing. I never saw her painting.

It created this friction in our relationship that made every situation feel tense. We didn’t even argue. We’d just try and converse awkwardly before we both went back to our phones.

At the peak of her withdrawal, that’s when she started taking classes. She didn’t seem excited about it. She didn’t seem eager to be better. She seemed like she was doing it out of spite. Like she was defeated but ready to prove me wrong.

She’d be gone 3 days a week from 5 PM to 10 PM, and after about a month of this, she started bringing home her work.

She never showed it to me.

I’d just find colorful canvases hanging up around the house. In the kitchen. In the living room. Hell, even the bathroom had a few.

She had definitely been improving. Her lines were straighter. Her shades were more on point. Her paintings wowed me rather than making me force out a fake smile or a “that’s so good, honey!”

At first, she was bringing home paintings of landscapes. Mountain ranges. Ocean horizons. Forests.

Then it turned into infrastructure. Castles. Mansions. Shacks and sheds.

Then it was people. The most detailed portraits she had ever produced. Her mom. Her dad. Her teacher from class.

I wish that’s where it would’ve stopped. She had proved me wrong. She had convinced me. She had nothing else to prove. But it didn’t stop there. She couldn’t have just been happy with the progress she had made.

I came home from work one day to find the first painting she had done of me personally. It had been hung up along with the dozens of other random paintings in our living room. I saw it and immediately became sick to my stomach.

It was me just… disassembled. My head was in one part of the canvas. My legs and arms sprawled out across the painting, with the most gruesome depictions of gore I had ever seen her produce.

I heard her humming to herself in our bedroom.
I approached her carefully as she sketched wildly in her sketchbook.

“Honey,” I whispered. “Why did you do that painting of me?”

Continuing to hum without even looking up from her sketchbook, she responded, “Eh, just how I was feeling today,” as she continued scribbling on her page.

In the weeks that followed, more and more pieces began to pop up around the house. Each one depicting different versions of my death.

She never seemed angry or agitated. She just seemed distant. Distant but at peace, and that’s the part that hurts me.

She seemed to have this obsession with dismemberment. In every piece, I was dismembered in some way or another. Held together by wires. Forced to be a scarecrow. One showed me to be ornaments strewn about a Christmas tree.
At this point, there’s at least a dozen of them. But that’s not the part that concerns me.

What concerns me is that I’ve been waking up with outlines drawn around the circumference of my legs and arms. My neck and torso. Like she’s figuring out a design.

She always denies any involvement whenever I question her, but who else could it be? Does she think that I’ll believe I’m just doing this to myself?
I don’t know what to do.

I just wanted her to be the artist I knew she could be.

My name's Ernie. Ernie Ball. Yeah, like the guitar strings. No, I don't play. No, you're not the first person to ask. My dad thought it was funny. He is not currently alive, which has improved my patience with the joke by about forty percent.

I drive nights because I'm a grad student, rent exists, and campus jobs pay like they're doing you a favor. I have a 2009 Honda Fit, a cracked phone mount, a cheap work phone for the app, and my personal phone in the cupholder because I used to think keeping those things separate mattered. Most nights it's drunk kids, late food runs, and people asking if they can add a stop after they're already in the car. Some nights the app sends me to addresses that aren't there when I check the map again.

The first thing you need to know about Mourner's Crossing is that nobody here gives normal delivery instructions. In Hartford, "leave at side door" means leave it at the side door. Here it means leave it at the side door, do not read the chalk marks, and ignore the little boy humming inside the wall if you hear one. I should have stopped driving nights after the first order from Hawthorne House. I did not, because I am stupid in the specific way poor people are stupid.

Order #187: Ichiban to Hawthorne House, 1:17 a.m.

The order came in right after I dropped a drunk undergrad at the dorms. Three orders of the A5 wagyu, rare, no substitutions. Deliver to the side service entrance. Do not use the front doors. Tip already added at thirty-eight dollars. The app asked if I felt safe. I said yes. The app said thank you and routed me past the closed gate on Cedarwater like it had never seen a map before.

I parked where the pin said. The side door was propped with a brick that had a piece of paper taped to it. The paper said DO NOT KNOCK. The door was already open six inches. Warm air came out. It smelled like the kitchen at Ichiban but also like wet stone.

A guy in a black coat stepped into the light from inside. He took the three bags, checked the receipt against his phone, and said, "Rosemary cracked on the second tray. Tell Iain she was laughing when it happened. He'll want to know."

"I don't work for Ichiban," I said.

"You do tonight." He handed me an envelope. "For the trouble. And for not asking why the drop-off moved three times while you were driving."

The app on my work phone updated while I watched. The original address disappeared. A new one appeared two blocks away, already marked delivered. The tip stayed at thirty-eight. The rating request popped up immediately.

"The app thinks I already dropped this," I said.

He looked at my phone, then at the brick holding the door. "It's learning. Try not to be the lesson."

He closed the door. The brick stayed where it was. I got back in the car, and the app pinged again before I could put it in drive.

New request nearby.
Passenger: F. Bell
Pickup: Mourner's Crossing University, Caldwell Lot
Drop-off: Home
Note from passenger: Do not accept if it is after 2:13.

It was 1:41. I looked at the thirty-eight dollars in the envelope. I looked at my gas gauge. I looked at the app, which had already added a surge multiplier like it was proud of itself. I hit accept.

The map rerouted me before I left the curb. The new route went past the old railbed even though that was not on the way to campus from here. The voice on the phone said, in the same calm tone it always used, "You are going the wrong way."

The problem was, I was not moving.

Ride #188: Caldwell Lot pickup, 2:09 a.m.

The pin said passenger F. Bell, standing by the cart. I pulled up. A man in a dark jacket and boots stepped out from between two cars. He looked exhausted, but not confused, which was somehow worse. He opened the back door, put a lunchbox and a flashlight on the seat, and got in without looking at me.

"Home," he said.

The app already had the address. It was not the one on the original request. The map flickered once, then settled on a street I knew existed but had never delivered to after midnight.

I said, "You're the one who put the note about 2:13."

He glanced at the phone mount. "Frankie Bell. Overnight security. The note was for the app, not for you."

"It took the request anyway."

"It does that now." He settled back. "Drive normal. Don't speed up if the lights start acting like they have opinions."

I put it in drive. The surge was still on. I told myself that was why I was still here. We were two blocks off campus when the voice on the phone said, calm as ever, "You are going the wrong way." I checked the mirror. Frankie was looking out the side window like he had heard it before.

"The app's been doing that," I said.

"It learns addresses it shouldn't have," he said. "Sometimes it learns people. Sometimes it learns rules that were never meant to be in the system."

The map updated again. The drop-off address changed to something three streets over, then changed back. The time on the screen read 2:11.

Frankie said, "If it asks you to confirm arrival before we get there, don't confirm."

"Why?"

"Because the house it thinks I live in isn't the one I actually live in. And the one it thinks I live in doesn't like visitors after the time it doesn't understand."

I kept my hands on the wheel. The app pinged a new notification.

Customer added delivery instructions:
Do not bring him here.

Frankie read it over my shoulder without leaning forward. "That one's new," he said. "Keep going. I'll tell you when to stop."

The voice on the phone said again, perfectly pleasant, "You are going the wrong way." I was still moving.

Ride #188, continued: 2:13 a.m.

The time on the screen hit 2:13 and the map went white for half a second. When it came back, the route line had reversed. We were being told to go back to Caldwell Lot.

Frankie said, "Pull over."

I didn't. The surge was still climbing, and I could already feel the rating request waiting for me. If I ended the ride now, I'd lose it. If I kept going, maybe it would settle. That was not smart. It was also not the dumbest thing I did that night.

The voice on the phone said, "You have arrived." We had not arrived anywhere.

Frankie leaned forward just enough to see the screen. "If it asks you to take a passenger photo, don't."

It asked. The prompt popped up clean and corporate: Confirm passenger identity for safety. A little camera icon. The fare estimate ticked up another dollar while the box sat there.

I told myself it was just the app being the app. I told myself Frankie was tired and seeing patterns that weren't there. I told myself I needed the money more than I needed to be right. I hit the camera.

The screen showed the back seat. Empty. The lunchbox and flashlight were still there. Frankie's seatbelt was still buckled across nothing.

The voice on the phone said, perfectly pleasant, "Thank you. Passenger confirmed."

Frankie sat back. He didn't look surprised. "Now it knows what you look like when you're willing to lie to it."

The route line turned around again and started pulling us toward campus. The blue phone outside Caldwell Lot began ringing on the screen even though we were already two blocks past it. The sound came out of my phone speaker like it was coming from inside the car.

"I can cancel," I said.

"You already confirmed," Frankie said. "Canceling now just tells it you're paying attention."

The app pinged again.

New request nearby.
High priority. Surge active.

Pickup: Caldwell Lot
Note from passenger: You left something.

Frankie looked at me in the mirror. "Your choice. But if you take that one, don't let it put anything in the back seat with you."

The phone kept ringing. I hit accept before I could talk myself out of it. The ringing stopped, and Frankie closed his eyes.

Ride #188, continued: 2:17 a.m.

We rolled back into Caldwell Lot at 2:17. The security cart was still there, crooked in the same place. The blue phone had stopped ringing on the screen the second I accepted the new request. That felt like the app checking a box for a deal I never made.

Frankie didn't open his eyes when I stopped the car. The new pin was right on top of the old one. No passenger name this time. Just a dot and the words Item left behind. I got out. The lot was empty except for us and the orange lights. Something small and rectangular sat on the curb where the cart had been: a lunchbox, same size and color as the one still sitting on the back seat next to Frankie's flashlight.

I picked it up. It had weight, and it was warm. The app updated while I held it.

Secure item in vehicle for drop-off.
Back seat only.

Frankie's voice came through the open window, calm and flat. "Don't put it back there."

I stood there with the lunchbox in both hands like an idiot. The surge was still active. The rating request from the first half of the ride was still pending. If I left the box on the curb, the app would probably just generate another request until I picked it up again. If I put it in the trunk, it might decide that counted as not securing it. If I put it on the front seat, I could at least see it.

I opened the front passenger door and set the lunchbox on the seat. It clicked against the plastic like it was heavier than it should have been. The app didn't complain. The surge stayed where it was.

Frankie opened his eyes. "It's going to want you to open it eventually," he said.

"Not while you're in the car."

He nodded like that was fair. "Then drive. The lot doesn't like people standing still in it after the time changes."

I got back in. The lunchbox sat on the seat beside me. It didn't smell like food. It smelled like the inside of a phone case after somebody's had it for too long.

The map updated with a new drop-off.

Mourner's Crossing Sheriff's Department.

Frankie looked at the screen. "Good," he said.

"Good?"

"Better than the other address."

I put the car in drive. The lunchbox made a small sound against the seat, like something inside it had shifted.

Ride #188, completed: 2:28 a.m.

The app ended Frankie's ride three blocks before the Sheriff's Department. No warning. No arrival prompt. No question about whether the passenger was safe. The screen just flashed once and updated.

Ride complete.
Passenger dropped off safely.

Frankie unbuckled his seatbelt.

"This isn't your house," I said.

"No. But the ride's complete."

"That's not the same thing."

"After 2:13, it's close enough."

He picked up his own lunchbox and flashlight from the back seat. The dome light did not come on when he opened the door. Before he got out, he looked at the lunchbox on the front seat.

"That one isn't mine."

"I figured."

"No, you hoped." He stepped onto the curb. "There's a difference."

The work phone chirped.

Delivery route active.
Bring item to recipient.

Frankie leaned down to the open door. "Don't open it alone. Don't put it in the back seat. Don't take it home."

"Where am I supposed to take it?"

He looked toward the department lights down the street. "To someone who can tell it no."

He shut the door. I watched him walk behind the car in the rearview mirror for one second, then the streetlight above him went out. When it came back on, he was gone.

Delivery #189: Mourner's Crossing Sheriff's Department, 2:31 a.m. to 2:51 a.m.

The route the app gave me was clean. No reroutes, no sudden address changes, no "you are going the wrong way" voice. Just a straight line to the department with the estimated arrival time updating every few minutes like a normal job. That should have helped. It did not.

The lunchbox sat upright on the passenger-side floor mat where it had slid after the last turn. The latch was still cracked open a little. Every time I hit a bump or took a turn too sharp, it made a small scraping sound against the plastic, like whatever was inside had to settle again. I kept both hands on the wheel and didn't look at it more than I had to.

The work phone in the mount stayed on the map. The personal phone in the cupholder stayed dark. I told myself that if either one lit up again, I would ignore it until I reached the department. That lasted until the first red light.

At the light on Route 17, the work phone chimed once.

Item temperature alert.
Open container to verify condition.

The fare estimate ticked down a dollar. I kept my eyes on the light. When it turned green, I drove through it without touching the phone. The estimate ticked down another dollar at the next intersection. By the time I reached the old railbed crossing, it had dropped five dollars total and a new prompt had appeared over the map.

Item temperature alert.
Open container to verify condition.
Failure to verify may affect delivery rating.

I pulled into the empty lot beside Dunne's Gas & Mini-Mart, put the car in park, and picked up the work phone. The camera prompt was already open. Front-facing this time. My own face looked back at me from the dark car interior, tired and badly lit.

I switched to the rear camera, aimed it at the lunchbox on the floor mat, and took the picture without opening anything. The app accepted it immediately. The estimate went back up. A new line appeared under the map.

Item verified. Thank you.

I put the phone back in the mount and pulled out of the lot. The lunchbox hadn't moved. That bothered me more than the scraping.

The rest of the drive was quiet. No more temperature alerts. No more prompts. Just the map and the little lunchbox icon in the corner and the steady click of the turn signal when I changed lanes. I started to think maybe the department run was going to be the easy part. That thought lasted until I turned onto the street the app wanted.

The Mourner's Crossing Sheriff's Department sat behind a low brick wall with a chain-link gate that was already open. One cruiser was parked at an angle near the side door. The lights inside were on but low. Through the big front window, I could see the dispatch desk and the back of someone's head. Kerri Donnelly's shift, probably.

I parked in the visitor spot closest to the door. The app updated.

You have arrived.
Confirm arrival.
Leave item with recipient.

I got out, left the engine running, and opened the passenger door. The lunchbox was heavier than it looked when I picked it up. Warm through the plastic. I carried it in both hands like it might spill.

The front door opened before I reached it. Kerri Donnelly stood on the other side with one hand still on the handle. She looked at me first, then the work phone in my hand, then the lunchbox.

"Delivery?" she asked.

"Yeah. App sent me."

She didn't ask for a name or an order number. She just stepped back enough to let me into the lobby. The Sheriff's Department smelled like old coffee, floor cleaner, and paper. Kerri pointed to the counter, but not the bare counter. A gray plastic evidence tray sat there with a clipboard beside it.

"Set it in the tray," she said. "Do not fix the latch."

I set the lunchbox down. The cracked latch stayed cracked. From where I stood, I could see something dark inside, but not enough to tell what it was.

Kerri picked up the clipboard and slid it toward me with a pen. "Sign that you delivered it intact and unopened. Date and time are already filled in."

"You get a lot of these?"

"No."

That did not help. I signed where she pointed. My handwriting looked worse than usual under the fluorescent lights. When I pushed the clipboard back, she did not take it right away. She was looking at the work phone.

The screen updated.

Handoff initiated.

"Did you do that?" I asked.

"No."

That helped less. Kerri reached under the counter and pressed something I couldn't see. Somewhere behind the interior door, a buzzer sounded once.

"You're the new night driver," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I guess."

"Frankie got word to us. Said you might show up with something that doesn't belong to you."

"That sounds like him."

"You know Frankie?"

"I drove him for twenty minutes and aged a year."

Kerri almost smiled. It did not last. The work phone chimed again.

Delivery complete.
Thank you for your service.

The fare hit while I was still standing there. Better than the Frankie ride. Not enough to make up for the temperature alerts and the photo and the way the car had stopped on its own earlier, but enough that I noticed. That bothered me more than it should have.

Kerri took the clipboard, tore off the top sheet, and folded it once. "You should go soon," she said. "Before the app decides you need a receipt."

I looked at the lunchbox in the tray. "You're keeping it?"

"For now."

"What's in it?"

"If you don't know, I'd like to keep you that way."

That was the first thing anyone had said all night that sounded like mercy.

The interior door opened before I could leave. Sheriff Doyle came through in jeans, boots, and an old department sweatshirt, like this was not even close to the weirdest reason he had been called downstairs before sunrise. He took in me, the work phone in my hand, Kerri, and the lunchbox in the tray. Then he looked at the phone again.

"Ernie Ball?" he said.

"That's been true all night."

Kerri made a small sound that might have been a laugh if the room had been less horrible.

The sheriff came closer but did not touch the lunchbox. He looked at the cracked latch, then at the screen. "Whose voice did it use?"

I felt my mouth go dry. "Mine."

His face did not change much. That was worse than if it had.

"And whose picture?"

I looked down at the phone. "Mine."

The work phone chimed before anyone could say anything else.

New request nearby.
High priority.
Pickup: Mourner's Crossing Sheriff's Department.
Drop-off: Your current location.
Passenger: Ernie Ball.

Kerri said, "That's new."

Sheriff Doyle looked at me. "It's done with the box. It's trying to move you now."

I did not like how calmly he said it. The phone pulsed in my hand.

Accept to proceed.

The sheriff held out his hand. "Give it to Kerri."

I handed her the work phone. She turned it face-down on the counter without looking at the screen.

My personal phone lit up in my pocket. Not a ring. Not a chime. Just the screen waking against my leg. I took it out.

Driver reassigned.

Below that, smaller:

Welcome back.

Nobody said anything for a second. Then Kerri said, "You should not drive alone."

"I don't have anyone to call."

"You have Wren's."

The sheriff nodded toward the front door. "Go there. Don't take another job. Don't confirm anything. Don't argue with it if it talks. Just drive to Wren's and go inside."

"What about my car?"

"If it tries to stop you, call here."

"With what?"

Kerri slid my work phone farther away from me. "Your personal phone still calls people, doesn't it?"

I looked down at it. The screen had gone dark again. "For now," I said.

The sheriff almost smiled. "That's usually enough in this town."

Outside, my car was still running. The passenger seat was empty. The lunchbox was gone. The work phone stayed face-down on the Sheriff's Department counter. My personal phone lit up once more before I reached the driver's door.

New request nearby.
Pickup: Mourner's Crossing Sheriff's Department.
Drop-off: Wren's Pub.
Passenger: Ernie Ball.

I looked back through the glass. Sheriff Doyle was still watching me. He shook his head once. I did not hit accept. I drove to Wren's anyway.

Wren's Pub, 4:07 a.m.

Wren's was still open when I pulled in, which in Mourner's Crossing usually meant someone important was still inside or something important was still happening. The lot had three cars and one truck with the engine ticking as it cooled. The big front window was lit warm against the dark street. Through the glass, I could see a couple of regulars at the bar and Wren herself behind it, sleeves rolled up, looking like she had been there since dinner and was going to be there until breakfast.

I parked, killed the engine, and sat for a minute with my personal phone face-down on the passenger seat. The screen had gone dark again after the last request. I didn't trust it to stay that way.

The lot was quiet. No new pings. No temperature alerts. Just the low hum of the building's exhaust fan and the occasional clink of glass from inside. I got out and left the phone in the car.

The bell over the door gave a tired little ring when I pushed it open. Warm air and the smell of fry oil and old wood hit me at the same time. The place was mostly empty: two guys I vaguely recognized from campus maintenance at one end of the bar, a woman in a puffy vest at a table near the window, and Wren wiping down the bar.

She looked up when the bell rang. Her eyes went over me once, fast and practical.

"You look like shit," she said.

"Thanks."

"App?"

I nodded.

She didn't ask for details. She just reached under the bar, came up with a clean glass, and poured me a Coke without ice like she already knew I wasn't in the mood for anything that would make me slower.

"Sit," she said. "Or stand. Whatever keeps you upright."

I took the stool at the far end, away from the maintenance guys. The Coke was cold and too sweet and exactly what I needed. I drank half of it before I set the glass down.

Wren leaned on the bar across from me, arms folded. "Frankie said you might come through tonight. He didn't say what shape."

"Human, technically."

"That's better than some."

The maintenance guys did not look over. That told me this was not their first four-in-the-morning conversation that sounded like it should have come with a waiver.

Wren nodded toward the kitchen. "Eat something."

"I'm fine."

"You came in here looking like a raccoon that got shown its own autopsy. Eat something."

"Sandwich is fine."

She disappeared into the back for a minute. While she was gone, one of the maintenance guys glanced over, recognized me from some late campus run, and gave me a small nod. I nodded back. That was enough conversation for both of us.

Wren came back with a plate: turkey on rye, mustard, pickle on the side. She set it in front of me and stayed standing there instead of going back to whatever she'd been doing.

"You still driving tonight?" she asked.

"I don't know. The app keeps offering me things. Kerri told me to come here instead of accepting the next one."

"Good advice. Kerri doesn't waste words unless somebody makes her."

I took a bite of the sandwich. It was better than it had any right to be at four in the morning.

Wren watched me eat for a second, then said, quieter, "You left the work phone at the department?"

"Kerri kept it."

She made a small approving sound. "Good. Don't hand it the easiest door."

I swallowed and wiped my mouth with the napkin she'd given me.

"You've dealt with this before."

"Everyone who works nights has dealt with it before. Some people just pretend harder than others."

The woman in the puffy vest looked over at us, then went back to her phone. She didn't seem worried. Just tired.

Wren leaned in a little. "Whatever it's trying to hand you right now, don't take it in the car. Not until you've got someone who knows how to say no sitting next to you."

"Is that an official town rule?"

"No. Official town rules have worse fonts." She straightened up. "Eat the pickle."

"Is the pickle also a rule?"

"The pickle is me being generous."

I ate the pickle. The sandwich was gone faster than I expected. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the food was in front of me. When I pushed the plate back, Wren took it without comment and refilled my Coke.

My personal phone sat face-down on the passenger seat of my car outside, dark for now. That felt better than it should have. It was still there. It just wasn't being listened to.

Wren must have seen something in my face because she said, "You can stay as long as you want. I'm not closing until the sun's up and the people who need to be gone are gone."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm going to put you to work if you're still here when the breakfast crowd starts pretending they didn't see anything weird on their way in."

That almost made me smile. I stayed on the stool and drank the second Coke slower.

For the first time all night, nothing was actively trying to make me move. It wouldn't last. I knew that. But for ten minutes, while Wren wiped down the bar again and the maintenance guys argued quietly about whether a locked supply closet could legally order a mop bucket, it was enough.

Wren's Pub, continued, 4:28 a.m.

I was on the second Coke when the kitchen ticket printer clicked on. It shouldn't have. The kitchen had been closed for over an hour. Wren had already wiped the pass and turned off the heat lamps. The machine made that little warm-up whir it only did when someone sent an order through the system.

Wren stopped mid-wipe and looked at it. The printer spat out one ticket. She tore it off, read it, and didn't say anything for a second. Then she said, flat, "No."

I sat up straighter. She turned the ticket around so I could see it.

Pickup: Wren's Pub
Drop-off: Your current location
Item: Driver
Special instructions: Do not let him leave with witnesses.

The maintenance guys at the end of the bar had gone quiet. The woman in the puffy vest was pretending very hard to still be on her phone. Wren set the ticket down on the bar like it had personally offended her.

"Kitchen's closed," she said to the printer.

It clicked again and printed another ticket.

Substitution approved.

Wren stared at it. "I said closed."

The printer made a soft, almost polite sound and went quiet.

She looked at me. "You're not leaving alone."

"I can just..."

"No," she said. "Sheriff Doyle told you not to drive alone. I know how to say no. And I'm not letting the app turn my pub into a pickup location."

She walked around the end of the bar, grabbed her coat off the hook by the kitchen door, and shrugged it on. One of the maintenance guys cleared his throat.

"You want backup?"

Wren shook her head without looking at him. "I've got it. Lock up when you leave."

She looked at me. "Car's out front?"

"Yeah."

We walked outside together. The lot was still mostly empty. My car sat under the security light like nothing had happened. My personal phone was visible on the passenger seat through the window, face-down and still dark.

Wren stopped a few feet from the driver's side. "Keys."

I handed them over without thinking. She unlocked the door, then stopped. The locks clicked again on their own. All four doors. Like the car had decided to help.

Wren looked at the door, then at me. "Rude."

She opened the passenger door, moved the phone to the center console, and got in. I stood there for a second like an idiot until she reached across and unlocked my door from the inside.

"Get in," she said. "Before it decides to start the engine for you too."

I got in. Wren pulled her seatbelt across and clicked it like she did this every night.

"Where were you headed before the app decided you needed an escort?"

"Home, I guess."

She made a small sound that might have been a laugh. "Bold. All right. Home it is. But we're taking the long way, and if your phone starts talking again, I'm answering it."

The personal phone stayed dark for now.

On the road, 4:41 a.m.

Wren waited until I had the car in reverse before she spoke again. "Phone stays face-down unless it starts yelling."

I nodded and backed out of the spot. The lot was still quiet. Through the big front window, I could see the maintenance guys still at the bar, one of them already moving to lock the door like this was normal enough to have a closing routine.

We pulled onto the street. Wren adjusted the seat a little and looked out the windshield like she was checking the weather.

"Home's the long way tonight," she said. "Stay on Main until the old feed store, then cut over on Cedar. Avoid anything the app tries to suggest after that."

The personal phone lit up on the console between us before we reached the first light.

Passenger added note:
Escort not authorized.

Wren picked it up, read it, and set it back down face-down.

"Too bad," she said.

The phone stayed dark after that for about thirty seconds. Then it lit up again with a new route suggestion overlaid on the map. Old Cellar Road was highlighted in bright blue, with a helpful little arrow and an estimated time savings of four minutes.

Wren didn't even look at it. "Straight. Past the feed store. Then left on Cedar."

I did what she said. The phone tried again at the next intersection, same suggestion, same helpful arrow. She reached over without looking and turned the screen face-down again.

"You know it's just going to keep doing that," I said.

"It can keep doing it from the console. I'm not arguing with a phone about roads I've been driving since before it had an operating system."

We drove in silence for a minute. The only sounds were the tires and the low rattle of something loose in the dash that had been there since I bought the car. Wren watched the road.

"You been driving nights long?" she asked eventually.

"Couple months. Started because the money was better than campus jobs."

She made a small sound that might have been understanding or might have been judgment. "Money's never better than campus jobs once the app starts noticing you. It likes drivers who need the money. Makes them easier to keep."

I didn't have a good answer for that, so I didn't try.

We passed the old feed store. The building was dark except for one security light over the loading dock. Wren pointed left at the next street.

"Cedar. Then we stay on it until we hit the bypass. App's going to hate that."

Sure enough, the phone lit up again the second I turned. This time it didn't just suggest Old Cellar Road. It tried to reroute the whole trip through it, complete with a little warning icon and the words Faster route detected.

Wren picked up the phone, looked at it for a second, then set it back down. "Rude. And wrong. Cedar's better after dark anyway. Fewer trees trying to remember your name."

I glanced at her. "Trees remember names?"

"Some of them try. Most of them are bad at it." She shifted in the seat. "Old Cellar Road's one of the ones that tries harder than it should. App keeps sending people down it like it's a shortcut. It's not."

We were coming up on the turn for Old Cellar Road now. The sign was still there, half-covered in some kind of creeper vine that hadn't been there the last time I drove past. The phone screen brightened again on the console. This time it didn't even bother with text. Just the map, Old Cellar Road pulsing like it was trying to get our attention.

Wren didn't look at it. "Straight. Past the sign. Don't slow down."

I kept my foot steady on the gas.

Something was standing just off the shoulder near the sign. It stood in the tall grass at the edge of the trees, tall and thin, with shoulders too narrow and arms that hung a little too low. Its head was tilted slightly, like it was listening to something.

The phone screen went dark on its own. Wren didn't turn to look at it. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

"Keep going," she said. "Whatever it is, it's not getting in this car tonight."

I didn't argue. I drove straight past the sign and didn't look in the rearview mirror until we were two blocks down Cedar and the only thing behind us was dark road and the occasional orange reflector.

Wren let out a slow breath. "Good. Now we can talk about what you're actually going to do when you get home."

On the road, continued, 4:58 a.m.

We drove the rest of the way in mostly comfortable silence. Wren gave directions when the phone tried to reroute us again, and I followed them. Cedar to the bypass, then the back way through the quiet neighborhoods. The phone kept lighting up with suggestions. Wren kept turning the screen face-down without looking at it.

When we finally pulled up in front of my building, the app had one last try. The screen lit up as I put the car in park.

You have arrived.
Confirm passenger drop-off.

Wren picked up the phone before I could touch it. "Don't confirm anything."

She opened her door and got out. I followed. The night air felt colder than it had when we left Wren's. My building looked exactly the same as it always did: cheap siding, bad lighting over the front door, one of my neighbor's bikes chained to the railing even though it had been raining earlier.

Wren walked me to the door like she was making sure I actually went inside. The phone in her hand lit up one more time.

New request nearby.
Pickup: Your current location.
Passenger: Ernie Ball.

She looked at it for a second, then declined the request and turned the phone all the way off. She handed it back to me.

"Leave it off until morning," she said. "If it turns itself back on, call me. I don't care what time it is."

I nodded. I didn't know what else to say.

Wren looked at the building, then at me. "You did all right tonight. Most people would've taken the box home or tried to argue with the app the whole way. You listened when someone told you to stop moving."

"Felt like the only smart thing I did all night."

"It was." She held out her hand. "Keys."

I blinked at her. "What?"

"Keys," she said again. "You are not leaving your car outside with that app still sulking in it. I'll park it behind Wren's until noon. You can come get it when the sun is up and you've had coffee made by someone who is not being hunted by software."

I gave her the keys.

She stepped back. "Go inside. Lock the door. Eat something that isn't from my kitchen if you can stand it. And don't accept any jobs until you've had at least six hours of sleep."

She turned and walked back to the car. I watched her get into the driver's seat, adjust it forward, and pull away without looking back. I stood there on the sidewalk until her taillights disappeared around the corner. Then I went inside.

The next morning the hold on my earnings was gone. So was my five-star rating. My account standing said At Risk. And when I opened the app, there was already a scheduled shift waiting for me.

Tomorrow. 1:17 a.m.
High priority. Surge active.
Auto-accepted.

I stared at it for a long time. Then I closed the app, turned the phone off, and went back to sleep.

My husband has always wanted kids. We’re just, I don’t know… I feel like we’re just not old enough yet. We got married young. Fresh out of high school.

He works with his dad as an electrician, and I’m still in college, studying to become a teacher. Needless to say, it’s not kids that I have a problem with. I just want to make sure we’re both in a position to raise our children the right way.

He knew that when I agreed to marry him. He seemed supportive of it at first. I told him very clearly that I wanted to wait until we were at least 30.

For the first 2 years, it seemed like everything was fine. I didn’t know just how agitated he was getting with my refusal to get off birth control. Every time he asked, it was like a stab to my heart.

We started arguing a bit. We’d bicker about little things like any other couple, but when it came to kids, it turned into full-blown screaming matches.

“I can take care of a baby.”

“You can still do school.”

“We’ll find a good daycare.”

It became clear that he just wasn’t seeing my vision. Part of me regretted getting married so abruptly. So young. Our brains hadn’t even fully developed yet.

But then again, we did get married for a reason.
We loved each other. We’d been friends since middle school. We got married after dating for 2 years. We were each other’s homes.

He just wasn’t so hell-bent on being a father back then. I don’t know what changed, but when it did, it was just downhill from there.

The arguments persisted, but so did I. So did we. I never wanted to turn my back on him. I just wanted us to make it through.

It seemed like all my prayers had been answered when the arguments just… stopped one day. I soon came to realize that that wasn’t exactly the blessing I thought that it was.

I remember he started going out more. Staying at work late. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find that I was alone in our bed.

Of course, my already stressed brain jumped to the worst conclusion.

I didn’t want to distrust him, but he wasn’t making trust easy.

When he saw me, it was just all sunshine and rainbows, but when he was gone, it was like he was dead.

No texts, no calls, nothing. At first, I was happy for the space, but as it went on, I started getting more and more unnerved.

When he wasn’t out or at work, he spent a lot of his time in our shed. He’d spend hours out there. I’d see him carrying food out there.

It became strictly off-limits to me.

Any time he saw me even come close to the building, he’d stop me and guide me back into the house.

This is around the time I became convinced that he had lost his mind. He started talking about a daughter that I know we didn’t have.

“Roxxy is a little fussy today.”

“You keep working on your schoolwork. I’ll take care of our baby.”

“I need to go out and get some food for Roxxy.”

Any time he mentioned it, all I could do was laugh awkwardly and ask him what the hell he was talking about. Every time, his answer was nearly the exact same.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He’d just smile and play it off like he wasn’t acting like a complete lunatic.

What scares me, though, is I’m starting to think maybe he’s not a lunatic.

I swear it’s like sometimes I can hear cries coming from the shed. Soft, weak little cries that are just audible enough for my guard to come up.

I found a pair of little pink socks in our dryer last week.

I always seem to find empty cans of baby formula hidden beneath the trash in our trash can.

When I really started grilling him about his behavior, the arguments came back. He’d scream at me. Call me horrible, awful names that I could’ve never imagined would’ve escaped his lips.

But the part that concerns me the most… is that he’s chained up the door to our shed.

He’s spray-painted over the windows.

He keeps the key with him at all times.

The crying has been getting louder and louder.
I don’t know if I’m too afraid to accept what’s happening, or if this is all just a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

All I know is that now he doesn’t just talk about wanting a kid.

He tells me he wants another.