After wandering through a pointless labyrinth of convoluted nooks, I was about to head back when I realized that wouldn't be so simple either. But then I spotted sunlight ahead and guessed it must be a second exit.

Emerging outside at the rear of the service station, I was once again struck by how small it seemed—just an ordinary shipping container. The weirdness never ended.

I stared at the iron rectangle, now draped with green ivy.

"I don’t remember that weed being on the roof when we arrived. Then again, I wasn’t paying much attention," I mused, shoving my hands into the pockets of my denim shorts. My fingers brushed against an envelope.

"To Constantin," it read.

I wasn’t entirely sure the letter was meant for me—up until now, I hadn’t even stopped to consider what my name was. But now, fragments of memory began resurfacing.

"Why should we live this life if we have no personal observer? After all, a director wouldn’t make a film knowing no one would watch it. We’ve lived apart through countless lives, but please—if that curious boy in yellow rubber boots still lingers somewhere in your subconscious, trust him."

"Selena," I said aloud, "speaking in riddles again. And why is she telling me to trust Oscar? Did I ever say I didn’t trust the kid?"

"If that’s you ‘cleaned up,’ I’ve got bad news for you."

Frank approached, tracing a wrench through the air as he sized me up.

"You’ve got catacombs back there. A miracle I even found the exit."

"What’s that paper in your hand?" Frank asked.

"No idea," I shook my head, "but it says ‘To Constantin.’"

"So you’re Constantin, then?"

Frank scratched his shoulder blades with the wrench’s handle and reached for the letter.

"Nothing interesting in there," I said automatically, pulling it away and tucking it back into my pocket.

"You know, Constantin," Frank smiled. "My boy and I have owned this station a long time. Technically, Glenn was born here, grew up here, learned the trade here."

I glanced at the "container" and said nothing.

"Plenty of folks have come through here. Plenty of well-off ones too," Frank clarified. "But someone as distrustful as you? That’s rare. Even Selena has her moments of being more forgiving. After all, she’s the one who brought you here, right? Doubt you’d have lasted a day on your own."

I was offended. In all my time here, even a crow had managed to judge me. I opened my mouth to retort, but Frank cut in:

"Don’t get me wrong—in a way, I get it. I lost my wife early on, raised my boy alone. Kids, as you know, are restless little beasts. Glenn still pulls stunts. Loves attention, no denying that. But that’s life, so he works with me."

"I’m sorry about your wife," I sighed. "Must’ve been hard, losing her like that, especially with a child to raise."

"Huh?" Frank looked confused. "Oh! Nah, you got it wrong. She’s alive and well—just ran off with that dung beetle, Vance."

"Ah," I finally understood. "And who’s Vance?"

"Local farmer," Selena chimed in, the kid beside her. "His ranch feeds half the county. Land’s crazy fertile."

"Scoundrels like Vance always have the best soil," Glenn added. "You should drop by, get acquainted."

"No way!" the kid snapped. "Quit messing with us."

"What’s the problem?" I asked.

"Vance is the local boogeyman," Selena explained.

"Oh, come on," Glenn scoffed, spitting out his toothpick. "He’s alright. Just… moody sometimes. Normal stuff."

"Rumor is he’s got an entire weapons cache buried on his ranch," the kid whispered conspiratorially.

"That’s just gossip from bored locals," Glenn countered. "They’ve said all kinds of things about us too. That we’re smugglers, secret millionaires—hell, even mechanics."