Buster's Journey

Inside the cabin, the silence lands heavier than the fight. The broken porch groans in the wind outside, but the room is warm, dim, and still.

Buster Jones lowers himself onto the nearest chair, careful with his bandaged hand. Mara sits across from him, elbows on her knees, staring at the floorboards like they might answer first.

She rubs her palms together once, then stops, as if remembering she is allowed to be still. The cabin light catches the tension in her jaw.

Mara looks up at him, then toward the small table between them, where a mug and a folded map sit untouched. The fear is still there, but it is quieter now, more honest.

Buster reaches across the table and closes his bandaged hand around Mara's. She looks up fast, then lets her fingers settle into his grip, no flinch, no retreat.

With his other hand, he pulls the folded map toward the lamp and opens it flat between them. The paper crackles over the table, replacing fear with route lines and corners.

Mara leans in beside him, shoulder to shoulder now, eyes tracking the roads he marks in the air. Outside, the broken porch gives one long groan against the dark.

Buster shifts the map slightly, pinning one corner with his palm. Mara tightens her hold on his hand, steady now, as if the gesture itself is a plan.