"Don't be ungrateful. This is your chance to come back. Address sent."
Sophia Pruitt.
That name sent a phantom ache through my dead hand.
Five years ago, she was the one Marcus would brave a blizzard to reach.
I was the one left behind.
I deleted the texts, pocketed my phone, and walked over to Frank.
"Frank, I need the day off."
His eyes bulged, spit flying.
"Day off? How many times this month? If you don't finish this car—"
"Today is my daughter's death anniversary."
He shut up. His gaze swept over my filthy uniform, and he waved his hand.
"Go. Don't be late tomorrow. I'm docking fifty from your attendance bonus."
I went to the locker room, stripped off the oil-stained coveralls, and changed into a denim jacket washed so many times it had faded white.
I rode my scooter west.
The wind cut across my face.
An hour later, I stopped in a stretch of wasteland.
This wasn't a proper cemetery—weeds choked everything, and jagged rocks jutted from the earth.
I stopped in front of an inconspicuous dirt mound tucked in the corner. No headstone.