Chapter 1 – The Dollar Map

It started, like many good stories do, on a day that didn’t seem like it would matter.

The rain had rolled in quick, sliding down out of the Indiana hills and across the Ohio River in a sheet of gray. One of those cold spring rains that made everything damp—from the creases in your jeans to the ache in your bones. Ronny Ellis hadn’t planned on being out long. Just a short drive into Henderson to pick up birdseed from Tractor Supply and a pair of socks from the Dollar General. But then the sky cracked open and changed his course.

He parked his old Tacoma in a narrow spot along Main Street and made a run for it. The first door he reached was Timeless Treasures Thrift & More—one of those storefronts that looked like it hadn’t been dusted since the late ’70s and didn't care. He stepped inside to wait out the worst of it.

The bell on the door jingled above him, a soft, tired sound. The air inside smelled of musty fabric, old candles, and the faintest whiff of burnt popcorn. Just like he remembered.

He hadn’t been in this shop in over three years. Not since Rebecca passed.

She used to love poking around the cluttered aisles of secondhand shops, searching for treasures among the forgotten. A depression glass bowl. A cast-iron skillet with just the right patina. Once, she found a first edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in a fifty-cent bin and nearly cried.

Ronny hadn't been able to walk into a place like this without seeing her ghost in every aisle. But now, soaked and cold, he crossed the threshold without hesitation. The past seemed quieter on rainy days.

The place was still a mess of loosely organized sections—clothing on the left, home goods along the wall, books and ephemera shoved into crates and half-collapsed shelves toward the back. A handmade sign, taped crookedly above a stack of milk crates, read:

ALL MAPS AND BOOKS – $1.00 EACH. CASH ONLY.

Ronny wandered back, letting his fingers brush the spines of paperbacks as he passed. Westerns, romance, and old Reader’s Digests stacked like forgotten bricks. One crate was filled with crumpled road maps—state-issued foldouts from the ‘50s, tourist guides to places that no longer existed, and brittle black-and-white city layouts that hadn’t been updated since Eisenhower was in office.

He was about to move on when something caught his eye.

A worn Kentucky State Highway map, folded more times than it should have been. It had yellowed from time and use, and one corner was torn clean off. Ronny gently unfolded it. A faint mustiness rose from the creases, like damp paper in an attic.

Printed in bold across the top:
KENTUCKY HIGHWAY DEPARTMENT – 1937 EDITION

Someone had drawn a thick red “X” in the central part of the state, near where the Green River curved through the hills. It looked like it had been marked with a grease pencil—faded but still visible.

Curious, he flipped it over, and a second piece of paper fluttered loose from inside. It was smaller, hand-drawn on yellowed notebook paper, and tucked neatly within the folds.

The second map was a rough sketch—a few lines for roads, a crooked outline of a ridge, and what looked like two barns labeled “Collier” and “Rayburn.” One corner had a looping note in cursive:

“June 12, 1939 – Safe. Do not forget.”

The handwriting was elegant but shaky, like someone used to writing carefully but no longer steady. The date sent a small chill up Ronny’s neck.

June 12, 1939.

He knew that date. It was the day his grandfather—Wayne Ellis—had disappeared for three full days. The family had always referred to it as “his spell,” like some cloud of forgetfulness had settled over him. When he returned, he was muddy, silent, and refused to talk about where he’d been. Ronny remembered being told the story by his father, who had been just a boy at the time. Pawpaw Ellis had said only one thing before pouring himself a glass of buttermilk and going to bed:

“I wasn’t alone out there.”

Ronny ran a thumb across the corner of the paper. What were the odds?

A throat cleared behind him. The clerk—maybe 20, maybe younger—stood near the counter with dyed-black hair and a pierced eyebrow. He looked bored, not impatient.

“You want that?” the kid asked, eyeing the map like it might fall apart.

“Yeah,” Ronny said slowly, folding both pieces as gently as he could. “Yeah, I do.”

“One dollar.”

Ronny paid in cash, thanked the kid, and stepped back outside. The rain had lightened to a mist, and the street was nearly empty. He sat in his truck for a while, the engine off and the windshield wipers still ticking.

The map sat unfolded in the passenger seat. It looked... deliberate. As if someone had taken the time to preserve it for a reason. Maybe it had been misplaced, forgotten, or passed through hands like a note in a bottle—waiting for someone who’d know what to do with it.

He didn't believe in signs. Not really.

But he did believe in questions.

And this one was practically screaming to be asked.