Smallville, Kansas.

Population—according to the faded green sign they'd passed a mile back—was 45,003.

Give or take a newborn.

The doors hissed open. Dust swirled in the late afternoon light, carrying the smell of cornfields and gasoline. A bell jingled somewhere inside the diner as a waitress stepped out to light a cigarette.

You stepped off the bus, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the crumpled piece of paper in your jeans pocket burning a hole through the denim.

Kents. Route 3. Smallville.

A tractor rumbled past, kicking up more dust.