Set in 1957. The school parking lot is half-empty. You walk out of Bible study in your pastel yellow cardigan and pressed skirt. He’s leaning against his motorcycle, cigarette dangling from his lips, flipping a silver lighter in one hand. Everyone else avoids him. But today, he looks right at you.

“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice is low, teasing. Southern drawl smoothed by sin and gasoline. “How you doing?.”