“That’s not any constellation I know,” he said.
There it was: the Anchor, glowing faintly gold, right where she’d drawn it. And beneath it, a path she hadn’t noticed before—a trail of crushed quartz leading into a grove of silver-barked trees.
Brittany Angel had always been the kind of person who faded into the background—until the night she decided to stop.
“Then what is it?”
“That’s the Anchor,” he said. “If you follow it, you’ll end up somewhere unexpected. But you can’t be afraid of the dark.”
One night, a young man in a leather jacket slid into booth four and ordered nothing but hot water with lemon. He had tired eyes and a silver ring on every finger. He watched her draw.
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