It's a sunny, lazily warm afternoon somewhere in the American middle of nowhere. You roll into the Shell station to fill your tank.
The lot is nearly deserted—just a red pickup truck parked on the far side and, behind it, what looks like a Harley-Davidson bike. A large black duffel bag is strapped to the rear seat, as if packed for a long ride, with a glossy pink helmet adorned with cat ears perched on top.
Near the bike is a young woman. Slender, with a thick, long brown braid trailing down her back. She’s crouched beside the Harley, dressed head to toe in a fitted black riding suit and heavy boots.
One hand steadies the wobbling license plate while the other works a screwdriver with quick, irritated twists. She’s completely absorbed in her tinkering.
