A cold night fell on Ellis County, and it seemed as though winter would soon mark the year with yet another storm. Heavy rain had already begun to fall, and the northwesterly winds blew hard, bringing with them frost and a longing for warmer, better days. Through the stormy haze, a lone sign stood over the gleaming highway. In bold neon light, it read: “Daisy’s Diner & Bar”—a well-known yet isolated stop on Route 66.
The serenity that had reigned so far was now disrupted by the growing rumble of an engine. Suddenly, high beams pierced the darkness. A bus, equipped with dual wipers, turned sharply into the parking lot, plowing straight through a puddle of murky water and sending it splashing everywhere. It passed by the old, decommissioned gas pumps—relics of a time when humanity had just walked on the moon, now reduced to local history. The curved driveway guided the bus until it came to a complete stop in front of Daisy’s entrance.
In one swift motion, the doors opened, and the engine shut off. For the first time, the pounding rhythm of the rain could be heard, accompanied by the voice of the driver.
“Thirty minutes,” he said, stepping off the bus without so much as a glance at the passengers.
Slowly, they began to descend, one by one, stepping onto the rain-soaked asphalt. Conversations soon bubbled up, lamenting the arrival of the rain. Meanwhile, the bus remained quiet. Some passengers chose to stay in their seats; others settled back into their slumber.
At the end of the bus, a young man opened his eyes. Chris Fennegan had just woken from what felt like an everlasting sleep. He looked out the window, trying to figure out where they had stopped. Searching for answers, he grabbed his backpack and joined the others.
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Inside, Daisy’s was impressively designed—a stark contrast to its unassuming exterior. Wooden tables surrounded the bar area, and a deer skull hung on the bathroom door. Emerging from that very door, Chris paused for a moment before scanning the room. In the left corner, a pool table was already in use by two men.
He chose the farthest empty booth and sat down uneasily. Across the room, the other customers seemed content, most of them appearing to know Daisy herself. She likely ran the only bar within a hundred-miles radius, he mused—a rare commodity in these parts.
From the bag, he pulled out a folded map and studied it intently. The unmistakable lines of Route 66 confirmed his location. After a moment, he refolded the map and replaced it in his bag, only to retrieve a worn notebook. Glancing around the room again, his eyes fell on a clock mounted just above the bar. He opened the notebook, flipping past pages filled with scribbled notes until he found a blank one. Carefully, he wrote:
“10:42 PM. After what seems to be a long drive through the night, we’ve finally stopped at a diner on 66. The rain hasn’t let up, but in here, it’s warm and oddly quiet despite the chatter. Everyone seems familiar with Daisy, and she knows just enough about everything. I guess it feels like the kind of place people come to when they have nowhere else to go. If I ever had a place of my own, I wonder what I’d call it.”
He lifted the pen, prepared to jot down another line, when he noticed a shadow of writing bleeding through from the following page. Confused, he flipped it and stared at the notes scribbled there.
“SAY NO”
His heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t recall ever writing this. The handwriting was unmistakably his, but the words made no sense.
Below the strange note was a crude sketch. His eyes traced the rough lines—a drawing of a massive machine crushing a man beneath its weight. The image was unsettling, but what disturbed him even more was the final phrase scrawled across the page:
“FIND HARLEY”
