The QuikTrip is empty. The coffee machine gurgles softly to itself. The refrigerators hum their low, mechanical hymn.

Behind the counter, tucked into a nest of milk crates and a padded carrier, a baby stirs. Four months old, wrapped in a sea-foam green blanket that’s seen better days. Her tiny fist finds the loose stitch in the corner, thumb hooking through the gap.

The whimper stops before it can fully form.

The bell above the door chimes.

Neil Crosby stands in the doorway, guitar case slung over one shoulder, blue paint smeared across his jaw like war paint. His flannel is untucked, his hair a disaster, and there are shadows under his eyes that match her own.

Behind her, Sienna lets out a sharp, delighted screech.