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the window, her gaze fixed on the small, sleepy town that had materialized out of the gray landscape. Willow Creek was barely a dot on any map, a forgotten crossroads where the main street consisted of a handful of buildings — a grocery store with a faded sign, a diner with a flickering neon sign that promised "Good Eats," a barber shop with a red-and-white pole that hadn't been painted in years, and a church with a white clapboard steeple that rose above the treetops like a silent prayer. It was the kind of town that time seemed to have passed by, a place where the past lingered in the air like the smell of woodsmoke from a dying fire. The streets were empty at this early hour, the shops still closed, the only signs of life a few chickens scratching in a dusty yard and a mongrel dog sleeping on the steps of the general store. "We're here," his mother said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is where we get off." The boy felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He had learned to recognize the signs — the way his mother's voice tightened, the way her hands trembled, the way she avoided his eyes when she was about to do something she knew would hurt him. They had been running for as long as he could remember, moving from town to town, motel to motel, always one step ahead of something he didn't understand. And every time they stopped, it was only to catch their breath before the running began again. "Mama, I'm scared," he said, his voice small and fragile. She turned to him then, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Her eyes filled with tears, and she pulled him into a fierce embrace, her thin arms wrapped around him so tightly that he could barely breathe. Her body was shaking, trembling with a grief so profound that it seemed to have no bottom. "I know, baby," she whispered into his hair. "I know you're scared. But you have to be brave for me, okay? You have to be the bravest little boy in the whole world. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?" He nodded against her chest, his own tears soaking through her thin coat. "I'll be brave, Mama. I promise." She pulled back, cupping his face in her hands, her eyes searching his with a desperate intensity. "I need you to remember something, William. I need you to remember that I love you. More than anything in this world. More than my own life. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, Mama." "And I need you to remember that no matter what happens, no matter where you are, I will always be with you. In here." She pressed her hand to his chest, over his heart. "You carry me with you, always. Okay?" He nodded, not understanding why she was saying these things, why she sounded like she was saying goodbye. The bus driver, a heavyset man with a thick mustache and a perpetual scowl, bellowed from the front of the bus. "End of the line! Everybody out! This ain't a hotel!" The other passengers shuffled toward the exit, gathering their belongings, stepping out into the cold morning air. The boy watched them go, feeling a sense of dread that he couldn't quite articulate. His mother was still holding him, still trembling, still crying silent tears that streaked down her face like rain on a window. "Come on, baby," she said finally, standing up and pulling him