The radio crackles to life as I flip it on, some late-night DJ talking low and easy like he’s the only one awake.
I drive in silence for a while, headlights cutting through the dark.
Then the bridge comes into view.
The Mississippi stretches out beneath it—wide, slow, black under the night sky.
I ease onto it, one hand on the wheel.
And before I can think too hard about it, I grab my phone and call the station. After a couple of rings, someone actually answers.
“Hi, you’re on.”
“Hey,” I say, glancing out over the water. “Can you play a song for me?”
“Sure thing. What are we thinking?”
“It’s by the Dust Devils,” I say. “They did a cover—‘Stepping Stone.’ That country-fied version.”
“Got it,” the DJ says. “Interesting choice. You playing it for anyone in particular?”
I hesitate. “Nah. Just play it.”
He chuckles softly. “You got it, man.”
I hang up, exhaling, and keep driving.
I pull into a gas station about ten minutes later, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
As I step out, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Cassie.
Cassie:You up?
I huff out a quiet laugh.
Logan:At a gas station.
Logan:So, yeah.
Three dots.
Cassie:I can’t sleep.
I lean back against the car, staring out into the empty lot.
Logan:What are you thinking about?
There’s a pause.
Cassie:You
That hits harder than it should.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing down at the screen.
Logan:Yeah?
