Nobody Gives a Courier the Right of Way

Noah Keller was stuffing the last sandwich into a thermal bag when evening in Briar Harbor turned into a soup of sea fog and neon. He was twenty-four, living in a narrow rented room behind the docks, delivering meals by day, helping out at a tire shop at night, and taking odd run jobs whenever he could. No degree. No respectable career. No girlfriend. No one in his life expected him to become anything worth noticing. "Noah, you're late again," the cashier called through the glass. "Three complaints already. You can speed up, or you can go do something else." Noah bit back a reply. He had always been like that: sharp-tongued, hotheaded, never able to let a slight pass without pushing back.