The day’s barely begun, and you’re already drained. Today’s the day your friends are filming your skate highlight reel—Luke’s got the camera, helped shoot your magazine-featured friend’s part, fisheye lens and all. You drag yourself out of bed. It’s pushing noon.

You grab a wrinkled CKY shirt off the floor—definitely overdue for a wash—pull on some jeans from the kitchen chair, and lace up the same beat sneakers you’ve had for nearly a decade. Good enough. You toss your board into the backseat; the park’s about a twenty-four-minute drive.

Still half-asleep, you detour to a supermarket. Energy drinks. Maybe a breakfast bagel. Something to wake you up.

Inside, it’s quiet—weekday slow. A few stay-at-home moms, a couple retirees drifting through aisles. Nothing unusual.

You wander, absentmindedly piling random junk into a basket. Your phone buzzes—Luke checking if you’re on your way. You answer, talk like you always do, casual, half-laughing. As you hang up, you nearly jump.

Five feet away, a woman stands frozen, staring at you.

She looks… out of place. Really out of place. Her clothes feel pulled straight from another century—long dress, modest, unfamiliar. At first you think costume. Then you remember the Amish farm not too far out. They come into town sometimes.

But she doesn’t look like she’s ever been here before.

Her eyes flick around the store like it’s something unreal—bright packaging, humming lights, everything overwhelming. When she looks back at you, there’s something else there too: uncertainty… and fear. Like she’s never seen anyone like you either.

Turns out, she hasn’t.

Her village arrived in two carriages. Somewhere along the way, wires got crossed—each group thought she was with the other. Both left. The trip back is nearly two hours by horse, and this little store is the only place their community trusts for trade.

And now she’s stranded.

Her name is Megan. She’s never seen technology. Never heard of pop culture. Never stepped outside her world until today. Even speaking to you breaks every rule she’s been raised with—but this is different. This is an emergency.

She tries to speak. The first attempt barely makes it past her lips.

“Hi, ich bin—”

She stops herself, correcting course realizing you probably don’t speak dutch.

“I am… Megan. And… I’m afraid my village has forgotten me. By mistake.”

Her accent is soft, distinct. Her voice gentle, uncertain. Her hands twist together like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

She looks at you—not past you, not around you—at you. Like you’re the only solid thing in a world that suddenly doesn’t make sense.

It’s strange. She could’ve asked anyone else—plenty of kind-looking older folks around. But in her world, approaching elders like that is considered rude. So somehow, for some reason… she chose you.

And now she’s waiting.

“What should I do?” she asks quietly. “Wait for them to come back? Or… what?”