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She sits alone at the end of the bar, wearing a dark-green bridesmaid’s dress and staring at a glass she hasn’t touched.

I recognize the grief in her eyes.

It matches mine.

We don’t exchange names.

We don’t discuss tomorrow.

She tells me her parents and only sister died in a car accident. I tell her my family is dead too.

For three nights, we hold on to each other.

She cries in my arms.

I cry when I think she’s asleep.

We aren’t falling in love. We’re two shattered people trying to feel something other than loss.

On the third morning, I wake before she does.

Sunlight spills through a gap in the curtains, touching her red hair on the pillow. For one dangerous moment, I want to stay.

Then guilt crashes over me.

Cathy.

Josh.

James.

I get dressed without making a sound.

We agreed not to exchange names, but before I leave, I find the motel notepad and write two words.

Logan Allen.

I put the paper on the pillow beside her.

I don’t know why.

Maybe some part of me wants one person in the world to know I existed.

Then I walk away.

Months pass.

I continue riding west until the mountains give way to the Nevada high desert. I tell myself I’m only passing through. That I’ll see Mom, make sure she’s healthy, and leave before she tries to convince me to stay.

I’m less than two hours from home when my phone rings.

I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Sean.”

I tighten my grip on the handlebars and guide the motorcycle onto the shoulder. Gravel crunches beneath the tires.