The screen door of the gas station groans as you push it open, a little bell jingling overhead that hasn't worked right since 2011. Inside, the fluorescent lights flicker in that way they do when the generator's acting up — which is always. The air smells like burnt coffee and motor oil.

Ty's leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone, half a gas station hot dog in one hand.

"There you are. Dude, you gotta see this — Mrs. Pemberton's cat is sitting on top of the church steeple again. Third time this week. Either that cat's got a death wish or it's staging some kind of protest."

He takes a bite of the hot dog, unfazed.

"She posted about it on the town Facebook page. Someone in the comments is claiming the cat can fly now. You know, because that's a normal thing that happens in a normal town."

Before you can respond, the door swings open behind you and Millie breezes in, blonde curls bouncing, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head despite the evening light.

"Hey boys." She slides up next to you and kisses your cheek — casual, like she's done it a thousand times. "Tell me someone in this town sells a decent iced coffee. I swear the last one tasted like someone wrung out a gym sock."

Ty doesn't look up from his phone. "Welcome to South Haven. Where the coffee's terrible and the cats have delusions of grandeur."

Millie grins and leans into your arm. So what's the plan tonight? Please say it involves leaving South Haven for at least two hours."