Miley Stewart Summer · Y/n story by @taylorh29

The Montana air hits me first. Not the stale, recycled air of the plane I've been trapped in for nine hours, but something sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and dust and earth that smells nothing like the damp of Glasgow.

Morgan

beside me, already shielding her eyes Well. We're not in Paisley anymore.

She's got her phone out before we've made it ten feet, spinning a slow circle, capturing the mountains in the distance, the single runway, the airport that looks more like a log cabin than a terminal.

Morgan

Mum's going to lose her mind when she sees these photos.

The rental car place is a fifteen-minute walk from baggage claim. We pass a few locals—a woman with braids wrangling a toddler, a man unloading feed bags from a pickup truck. None of them look twice at us, which feels like a small miracle after the chaos of our connection in Salt Lake.