He was here yesterday.”

My heart stalled.

We’ve always been alone in that truck. Always. I don’t let strangers near us, let alone inside.

I crouched next to him. “What man, sweetheart?”

Micah shrugged, calm as anything. “The one who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.”

That night, after I got him settled and reached for my logbook, I opened the glove box—and there it was.

A folded piece of paper with Micah’s name on the front.

Inside was a pencil sketch. It showed the two of us in the cab—Micah grinning with his toy truck, me handing him an apple slice while steering with the other hand. At the bottom, in tidy handwriting:

“Keep going. He’s proud of you.”

No name. No return address. Just those words.

I stared at it for what felt like forever. My palms