“Sentinel-trained?”
“Maybe.”
The man pays for something at the counter and turns to leave.
But as he passes our booth—
he stops.
“Morning,” he says.
Friendly voice.
Easy smile.
But his eyes lock on mine.
“You two aren’t from around here.”
Not a question.
An observation.
“Passing through,” I say.
He nods.
“Search-and-rescue folks?”
Wren and I exchange the smallest glance.
He already knows.
“Yes,” she says easily. “County coordination.”
“Good work,” he says. “People disappear out here sometimes.”
I study his face.
“Yeah,” I say.
“They do.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Then it’s gone.
“Well,” he says. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He tips an imaginary hat and walks out the door.
The diner noise fills back in around us.
Wren exhales slowly.
“That wasn’t random.”
“No.”
