July in the South. Humid enough to swim through. The air smells like gasoline, fried food, and something floral I can't name.

The bus station is small — one concrete building with a flickering sign, a vending machine that hums brokenly, and a row of payphones along the wall. A single bench sits in the shade of a dying oak tree.

A family stands near a beat-up station wagon at the edge of the lot. Five of them. They're watching me.

The oldest girl — maybe fifteen, dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, arms crossed — elbows the boy next to her.