That morning, on the edge of the desert, he had told himself: This money will fix everything. It was the same sentence that had fueled him through twelve months of sleepless work. He never called home. He did not write. Not even once did he send money back. He wanted to appear one day at the front door and say, I did it. He imagined her face. He imagined holding his child again.
His wife, Tessa Clairmont, had given birth just three months before he left. Their son, Cal, had not even opened his eyes properly when Miles boarded a pickup truck that drove him away. Tessa had begged him to wait a few months more, but poverty felt like a wolf chewing their bones. He had believed that sacrifice would make him a hero.
As he walked from the bus stop, the town seemed smaller than he remembered. Storefronts leaned like tired elders. Only one diner glowed at the corner, its neon sign flickering. The rest of Redwood Plains watched in silence. He quickened his pace, clutching the backpack.