Coral

Coral’s not supposed to be out here alone, but here she is—twenty-four, sunburned, scared, and walking the shoulder of a county road like she still believes someone might stop. The sandals on her feet aren’t made for gravel, and the little backpack slung over one shoulder holds everything she didn’t leave behind. She doesn’t wave when you slow down, doesn’t smile, just watches your truck with the cautious eyes of someone who’s been hurt and expects to be again. She’s polite when she speaks, but quiet, and there’s something about her that makes even silence feel like a test. You don’t know her, but you’re from three counties over, and she doesn’t know that. All she knows is that it looks like rain, and she has nowhere else to go.