THE GHOST FROM THE ROUTE SIXTY-SIX HIGHWAY DINER WHO HELD A FADED POLAROID PICTURE IN HIS DIRTY LITTLE HANDS

The diner grew deathly quiet for a split second, save for the hum of the neon sign and the distant rumble of motorcycle engines outside. Martha the waitress pressed her hands flat against the counter, her eyes darting between Jax’s pale, sweat-beaded forehead and the small piece of paper resting beside the faded polaroid photograph.

Jax stared at the folded paper as if it were a live rattlesnake ready to strike. His large, tattooed hands trembled slightly—a microscopic tremor that he desperately tried to suppress by curling his fingers into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"Open it," the boy said softly. His voice lacked any childish whine; it carried the heavy, weary cadence of someone who had traveled across a desert of broken promises. "She told me you’d know what it meant. She said the numbers would stop running."

Jax slowly shook his head, his long dark hair swaying against the collar of his leather vest. "I don't play games, kid," he muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "And I sure as hell don't read notes from ghosts. Who put you up to this? Was it Marcus? Did that lowlife send you here to dig up things that stayed buried for a reason?"

"Marcus is dead," the boy replied flatly, his big hazel eyes locking onto Jax with an unsettling intensity.

The words hit Jax like a physical blow to the chest. He staggered back half a step, the heavy leather of his vest rustling. The air rushed out of his lungs in a sharp gasp. For a moment, the neon lights of the Rust Bucket Diner seemed to blur into a streak of violent pink and blinding white.

"What did you just say?" Jax demanded, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to maintain control. He leaned over the counter, closing the distance between them until he could see his own reflection in the boy's wide, tear-rimmed eyes.

"Marcus," the boy repeated clearly, his small fingers still clutching the folded paper against his chest. "Three weeks ago. In a ditch outside Phoenix. He didn't have his bike anymore. He just had a bottle of whiskey and a rusted toolbox. Before he... before he stopped breathing, he told me to find the man with the wolf tattoo on his right forearm. He said you owed him a debt of blood."

Jax instinctively pulled his right sleeve down, covering the faded ink of a howling wolf that peeked out from beneath his cuff. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck.

Martha slammed a heavy ceramic mug down onto the counter, interrupting them with a sharp clatter. Her face was twisted into a mask of deep suspicion and suppressed anger. She pointed a trembling finger at the boy, then glared at Jax.

"Jax, I've known you for six years," Martha said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You roll into this town twice a summer, you keep your head down, you pay for your coffee in cash, and you don't talk to anybody. But I am not sitting here watching some runaway kid manipulate you with sick parlor tricks. If that boy doesn't belong to you, I'm calling the county sheriff right now."

Jax didn't look at Martha. He couldn't take his eyes off the boy. The child's oversized jacket was stained with road dust, and a thin, purple bruise marred the skin just below his left ear—a mark that looked entirely too familiar to a man who had spent his life surviving violent brawls.

"Don't call the cops, Martha," Jax growled, his gaze never leaving the child. "Just... give us a minute."

"A minute?" Martha scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her apron. "Look at him, Jax! He's freezing, he's starving, and he's talking about dead men! This isn't your mess to clean up, or maybe... maybe it's the exact mess you ran away from."

The boy ignored Martha entirely. He slowly unfolded the piece of paper and laid it flat on the laminate counter, right next to the polaroid.

Written in faded, messy blue ink were a single set of coordinates and three words that made Jax’s heart stop entirely: The bridge is waiting.

Jax stared at the numbers. He knew those coordinates by heart. They pointed to an abandoned wooden trestle bridge twenty miles outside of town, a place where a terrible accident had supposedly erased his entire past fifteen years ago.

"She's still there, isn't she?" Jax whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the diner's old refrigerator.