Chapter 4: Elunara

The next town is small. The kind that still has newspaper boxes and window displays that haven’t changed since the ‘80s. There’s a post office with peeling paint and a diner called “Dot’s” with hand-painted specials in the window.

As if on cue, my stomach roars to life with a grumble. My last meal was yesterday’s drive-thru cheeseburger.

Dot’s it is.

I reach into my backpack and pull out a fistful of one-dollar bills. The last of my cash I found as I was packing up my place.

The metal trim around the roof has rusted. There’s a line of mismatched chairs on the front porch. I pull into the empty spot near the door and shut off the engine.

A small bell jingles above the door when I step inside, and instantly my nostrils fill with the delicious scent of grease. The comforting hum of an old ceiling fan whirs above faded checkerboard tiles.

Booths line the far wall, each with green vinyl cushions cracked at the seams. The counter stretches across the left side, its surface worn smooth by years of elbows. There are no customers. Just a radio playing something soft and twangy in the kitchen.

From behind the counter, a woman emerges. Late fifties maybe, blonde hair piled high in a beehive teased within an inch of its life. Her lipstick is fire-engine red, and her expression is politely unreadable.

She wipes her hands on a towel and gives me a once-over. She’s not hostile—just observant.

“Afternoon,” she says, voice gravelly but not unkind. “Sit anywhere.”

“I’ll just take something to go,” I say, stepping forward. “Chicken salad sandwich, if you’ve got it.”

She nods without writing anything down. “You want that on white or rye?”

“White,” I say. “Thanks.”

She turns and disappears behind the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. I hear the dull clatter of pans. I move toward the window and press my fingertips against the cool glass, looking out on the quiet street as a man in a fishing vest walks by.

“Where you headed?” she calls from the back.

I glance toward the kitchen door. “Out past the township. I inherited some land.”

The door swings open, and she comes back, wiping her hands again. She leans on the counter, one hip cocked. “Oh yeah? You movin’ in?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “I’m going out there today to see it.”

She squints. “Where about?”

“Hucow Hollow.”

The server tilts her head. “Never heard of it.”

I blink. “Really?”

She shrugs. “You sure that’s what it’s called?”

I reach into my bag and pull out the letter. That’s two people now. I open it just enough to read the name again.

“Hucow Hollow,” I repeat. “That’s what it says. It’s got GPS coordinates and everything.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. But her fingers curl slightly around the towel she’s still holding.

“Huh,” she says. “Must be out real far. Some of those roads don’t even have names.”

I nod, though unease flickers in my chest.

She vanishes again, and I hear the soft rustle of sandwich wrappers. The rhythmic motion of a knife against bread. I glance around while I wait.

Photos line the back wall—black and white snapshots of the town in its youth. Kids on tricycles. Men outside a feed store. A faded picture of the diner itself, circa forever ago, with a long-gone pickup truck parked out front.

After a few minutes, she returns with a white paper bag. “Chicken salad,” she says, placing it on the counter. “Extra pickles, house-made mayo. Comes with a handful of chips. That alright?”

“Perfect,” I say, reaching into my wallet.

She rings me up on a dusty register that beeps with exhaustion. “That’ll be $5.25.”

I hand her eight crumpled bills (it’s all I have left) and wave off the change. She nods once, not saying thank you, but something in her eyes softens. “You be careful out there.”

“I will.”

She pauses, like she wants to say more. Then: “Watch the fog. Gets real thick on that side of town at times.”

“Thanks,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm.

The bell jingles again as I push open the door and step back into the overcast afternoon. The warmth of the diner clings to me as I cross the sidewalk and slide behind the wheel.

I set the bag on the passenger seat beside Rex and unwrap just one corner of the sandwich.

The scent hits me immediately—sharp celery, cool chicken, the tang of fresh mayo. I take a bite before I even start the engine.

The sandwich is delicious. The bread is soft but toasted around the edges. The filling creamy but not soggy. It’s perfectly seasoned. Homemade in a way that makes my nose tingle, like my body remembers what it feels like to be taken care of.

I let myself sink into the taste, chewing slowly, savoring every bite like I might never have another like it.

Then I fold the rest back into the wrapper, nestling it into the bag, and continue through town.