The neon sign of the 24-hour diner flickered, casting a pale, buzzing pink light onto the wet pavement. Inside, Elias stared at a screen that didn't belong to him—a search result glowing on a public library computer he’d forgotten to lock, or perhaps a notification that slid across his phone at the wrong moment.

Elias went out to the porch to split wood, needing the rhythmic violence of the axe to drown out the silence inside. Thwack. He thought of the search query. Please come for Thanksgiving. It was a prayer, really. A prayer to a silicon god.