The map cracked between Arlen's fingers like old skin.
Wind cut across the overpass, sharp enough to sting. He pressed the paper flat against concrete, traced the faded red line with his thumb. Route 47-B. The one that led twelve people into an ambush three years back. The one that got them all killed.
*Should've burned this.*
But he hadn't. Never could. The guilt needed its evidence.
Below, the Wyoming valley stretched empty—brown grass and scattered bones. A horse carcass slumped against a rusted signpost, ribs bleached white as piano keys. At its hooves, a child's sneaker. Pink. Size small.
Arlen's pen hovered over his notebook. GPS coordinates: 42.7598° N, 110.8026° W. Another failure catalogued. Another pin on his map of the damned.
The paper fluttered. A corner tore loose, revealing something underneath—coordinates he didn't remember writing. 40.7589° N, 111.8883° W. Salt Lake territory. Firefly ground.
His chest tightened.
*When did I mark this?*
The radio static hit him like a slap. Memory flooded back—the crackle of his headset, the convoy leader's voice cutting through interference: *"Tracer, confirm the route. Tracer, do you copy?"*
He'd copied. Confirmed. Sent them straight into hell.
The child's scream lasted three seconds before the line went dead.
Arlen jerked back to the present, fingers white-knuckled around the map. The torn piece fluttered in his palm—those Salt Lake coordinates staring up at him. He should throw it away. Let the wind take it.
Instead, he folded it carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Footsteps echoed below. Arlen rolled the map, stuffed it into his pack with practiced speed. Two figures climbed the overpass—Jackson patrol, moving slow and loud. The woman led, rifle slung casual across her back. Behind her, a kid maybe twenty, all nerves and quick glances.
"Afternoon, Tracer." Reina's voice carried the weight of too many years and not enough sleep. "Fancy meeting you out here."
Arlen nodded. Didn't speak. Let them fill the silence.
"Tommy's looking for you," she continued, studying his face. "Says it's urgent."
The kid shifted his weight. "Been gone three days. People were wondering—"
"Jonas." Reina's tone cut sharp. The kid shut up.
Arlen shouldered his pack. "What's Tommy want?"
"Didn't say." She scratched her jaw, eyes never leaving his. "But he's not the only one waiting."
*Joel.*
Arlen felt the name settle in his stomach like a stone. Of course. Three days of peace, and now this.
"Tell him I'm coming."
Reina nodded. Started back down the slope, then paused. "Arlen?"
He looked up.
"Whatever job this is—watch yourself. Tommy's got that look."
The patrol disappeared into the tall grass. Arlen remained on the overpass, wind pulling at his clothes. Below, the horse's bones caught late sunlight. The pink sneaker hadn't moved.
He opened his notebook, wrote: *Child's shoe. Size 6. Owner presumed dead.*
Then he closed it and began his descent.
---
The checkpoint guard barely looked up from his magazine. "Ghost walks again," he muttered, waving Arlen through. "Thought you'd finally wandered off for good."
"Not yet."
"Shame." The guard grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "Tommy's been asking after you. Daily."
Arlen kept walking. Behind him, he heard the guard whisper to his partner: "He's back on the grid."
*Everyone's watching. Everyone's waiting.*
Jackson's wooden walls cast long shadows across the road. Inside, smoke curled from chimneys. Children's voices drifted from the school yard. The sound of normal life—something he'd never quite learned to trust.
Tommy's cabin sat apart from the main settlement, windows glowing amber in the dusk. Arlen paused at the porch steps, hand hovering over the torn map piece in his pocket. The coordinates felt like a brand against his fingers.
*Salt Lake. Firefly territory. What the hell was I thinking?*
He knocked.
The door opened immediately. Tommy stepped aside without greeting, face stone-hard in the lamplight. Past him, Arlen saw muddy boots by the fireplace. A whiskey glass on the table, half-empty. The grip of a revolver, worn smooth by decades of use.
Joel sat in the far chair, shoulders set like he expected a fight.
"Come in," Tommy said. "We need to talk."
Arlen stepped inside. The door closed behind him with the soft click of a trap.
"Hello, Joel."
Joel's eyes found his—gray as winter sky, just as cold. "Tracer."
The name hung between them like a curse. Arlen pulled off his gloves, folded them carefully. In his pocket, the torn map crinkled.
"Heard you've been mapping again," Joel said.
"Always mapping."
"Finding anything interesting?"
Arlen met his stare. "Depends what you're looking for."
Tommy poured a third glass of whiskey, set it on the table between them. "Sit down, Arlen. Time we talked about Salt Lake."
The words hit like a punch. Arlen's hand moved instinctively to his pocket, feeling the coordinates through the fabric.
*How much do they know?*
He pulled out the chair and sat. The whiskey burned going down, but it steadied his voice.
"What about Salt Lake?"
Joel leaned forward. "Someone's been asking questions. About you. About routes you used to run."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that get people killed." Tommy's voice carried an edge. "The kind that lead back to Jackson."
Arlen set down his glass. Outside, wind rattled the windows. Inside, three men sat around a table, each carrying secrets that could destroy them all.
"So," Joel said quietly. "What do you know about a cache in the mountains? And why is someone willing to pay blood money to find it?"
The torn map felt like fire in Arlen's pocket. The coordinates burned behind his eyes: 40.7589° N, 111.8883° W.
*Salt Lake. Firefly ground. The place where everything ended.*
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Joel smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Sure you don't, Tracer. Sure you don't."