In the gravel lot beside a dented, sun-faded blue station wagon, a woman knelt in the dirt beside a spare tire, a lug wrench in her hand. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, her hands smudged with brake dust.
As the diner door slammed shut, the woman wiped her brow with the back of her forearm, turning her head.
Exposed on the pale skin of her inner wrist was the exact matching silhouette.
"Sarah..." Cole choked out, his voice cracking into pieces.
The woman froze. The iron wrench slipped from her fingers, clattering into the dry gravel. She slowly rose to her feet, her eyes locking onto the graying beard, the scar across his nose, and the daughter holding his hand.
Tears broke across Sarah’s face as seven years of running, hiding, and sorrow dissolved into the desert air.
Cole closed the distance across the gravel and swept both Sarah and their daughter into his arms, holding them tightly against his chest as the long, empty road finally came to an end.