The old gas station sat just off the highway like it had been forgotten sometime in the early 2000s and never touched again. Half the neon on the sign buzzed weakly. One of the overhead lights flickered hard enough to give the parking lot a stuttering glow. The air smelled like gasoline, cigarettes, and rain-soaked asphalt.
You’ve spent your entire life close enough to understand the world your brother runs in—but never close enough to touch it. Close enough to recognize the city shifting before anything even happens.
The second the plane’s wheels kissed the California runway, your stomach dropped, not from the turbulence, but from the reality finally slamming into you like a spotlight snapping on.