The sun had begun to drop, but the heat still pressed against the Arizona highway like a sentence being served.

My name is Emily Parker, and on that day, I had exactly forty-seven cents in my pocket.

Beside me were two worn-out suitcases, one ripped cloth bag, and an empty lunchbox my daughter kept opening as though food might somehow appear by magic.

“Mommy,” Lily whispered, pressing one hand against her stomach. “Is the bus coming soon?”

My throat tightened.

I forced myself to smile.

“Soon, sweetheart.”

My son, Noah, was seven, old enough to recognize when I was lying but kind enough not to say it.

He stood next to me, dusty and exhausted, trying his best to look brave.

“We can walk,” he said quietly. “I can carry one bag.”

That almost broke me.

“No,” I whispered. “You’ve done enough.”

We had spent hours waiting on the shoulder of a deserted interstate outside Tucson. Cars passed in bursts of chrome and heat, but not one stopped.

Then, finally, one did.

A black sedan slowed beside us, polished and sleek, looking completely wrong on that dusty stretch of road.

I instinctively stepped in front of my children.

The window rolled down.

A man looked out at me.

He was older than I was, maybe in his early forties, dressed in a dark tailored suit despite the brutal heat. His face was calm, serious, impossible to read.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

My arms tightened around Lily.

“We’re waiting for the bus.”

His eyes shifted down the empty highway.

“There hasn’t been a bus on this route in three days.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“The company shut down service. No drivers. No route.”

For a moment, everything went silent.