Whenever she’d get homesick, she’d head to that little fish shack. It was plumb homey; grease smell in the air, fried catfish with navy beans on the side. Mason jars full of green onions sat on the tables. The tea was so dark, it looked like it’d been brewed from the Mississip itself.

When she saw the sign for the Catfish House, she knew she’d found the right place. Placing her order, she let them take her picture and stick it on the wall with all the others.

Logan knew her patterns. He might find her photo, one day.