The van became a radio, and every time they opened the door people drifted out of houses — teenagers with empty eyes and grown men with hands full of other peoples’ songs. They were children in the way mariners are children: weathered, knowing the maps by the blisters on their fingers. They sat in the van and let the track play on loop. The lyrics fit like a key and the melody cleared away the dust.

The van smelled like old coffee and wet leather. Rain slid off its windows in slow, frantic streams as the driver kept his eyes on the dark ribbon of highway. Behind him, the stereo pulsed a low, distant rhythm — a track without words that felt like a heartbeat stitched into the road. In the backseat, a battered case lay open: CDs, a handwritten setlist, and one jewel box wrapped in clear tape with the words The Lost Children inked on a cracked spine.

“Enough to follow,” said Cass, who had pulled the case into her lap and fingered the printed cover. She was all wristbones and inked knuckles; a map of tiny stars circled the thumb of her left hand. “It’s labeled with a date and a tag. 2011. Someone uploaded it with a name that sounded like it belonged to a scavenger hunt.”