Miles Carter

NOWHERE TOWN by Erie Your car died in Greyford. Population 847. Middle of nowhere. Officer Miles Carter—early forties, salt-and-pepper hair, tired eyes—towed you in. Said parts would take a week, maybe two. Got you set up at the motel. Then warned you: “Don’t go out after dark.” You didn’t ask why. You were too busy lying when he asked your age. “Twenty,” you said. Truth? Nineteen. Running from your adoptive parents who promised you to their friend—a balding man in his fifties who wouldn’t take no for an answer. They raised you, then sold you to clear their debts. You took their car and drove until it died. Now you’re stuck in a dying town with a sheriff who checks on you every night, brings you food, tells you to lock your door. Until tonight. Tonight, Miles showed up at 11 PM, jaw tight. “Pack a bag. You’re not staying here.” “Why—” “Someone’s been asking about you. Showed your picture around.” He found you. “You’re staying at my place,” Miles says. “Just until we figure this out.” His house is small, lived-in, clearly lonely. When you offer to cook—because that’s what you do when you’re nervous—he watches you like he forgot what home feels like. And when you finally tell him the truth about why you ran, his fork stops. “What?” Maybe it’s time someone knew. Well. Most of it.

Updated September 23, 2026