Lane wasn’t sure how to feel about his current situation.

He’d said goodbye to his friends a few moments earlier, and this time with a finality that he’d never really get used to. He’d likely never see them again, and he wasn’t exactly expecting anyone to send him any letters.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his friends or didn’t get along with them, but there always seemed to be a certain distance between him and the others. Maybe he was trying to stay unattached because he didn’t know when he’d be moving again, or maybe it was something deeper.

Either way, he knew he wouldn’t really miss them, and knowing this made him feel almost inhuman. Part of him dared to hope that things would be different next time, that maybe he’d make genuine friendships, find people that would care if he were to go away again, another part of him was afraid of that actually happening.

Lane fiddled with the straps on his backpack with one hand, clutching the smallish duffel bag that contained all his belongings with the other. The breeze blew his hair into his eyes and a strand got caught in one of the hinges of his glasses. He tucked a piece of jet black hair behind his ear.

Busses came and went while he sat on the bench. He glanced at the clock just as the hour ticked over. In the distance a rhythmic chugging sound grew louder and louder. It turned a corner, tilting unnaturally with its momentum. What looked like a modest mid-size family sedan with the engine of a small steam train sticking haphazardly out of the front pulled up to the station. A few onlookers gave it quick confused glances before getting on with their days.

“Exactly on time,” he noted to himself.

With a screech and a hiss, it pulled to a stop in front of Lane. The door flew open, and he found himself tightly embraced by his older sister, his face pressed uncomfortably into her shoulder.

“Gosh, you’ve gotten so tall! How’ve you been, kiddo?”

“M’ve mfflebl”

“That’s good to hear! Oh! Let’s take a picture together!”

Susan let go of Lane and rummaged around the glove compartment with a prolonged clattering. Lane pulled his hood over his face, pulling on the drawstrings.

“Please, no photos.”

“Oh, okay,” Susan put the camera roughly back where it was. “Let me get your things into the trunk.”

Lane buckled himself in. The thunk of the trunk closing shook the vehicle on its suspensions. He watched the older girl climb into the driver’s seat. He felt that Susan had a different air about her compared to what the photos in the newspapers suggested, lacking the dark polarized goggles, long lab coat, and maniacal grin she tended to wear in her particular line of work. She had even made an attempt to tame her usually wild unkempt hair into a manageable ponytail. 

“How long has it been, a month or two?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the road.

“Closer to half a year.”

It went silent for a long moment.

“Crap, I’m sorry. I’ll treat you to ice cream?”

Lane sighed deeply.

“I could go for ice cream.”

Susan’s eyes lit up.

“There’s this great place on the way! They have cinnamon ice cream! I’ve only ever seen that flavor in Germany!”

* * *

Susan nursed her brain freeze, while Lane’s single scoop of vanilla sat half melted in its paper cup. Lane picked at it with a spoon. Cool aromas of the various flavors on display wafted through the ice cream shop, decorated with pop art of ice cream cones being held in unusual locales.

“I know this doesn’t really make up for it,” she admitted.

“It’s fine. It’s a start.”

She smiled at him.

“I want to do better. You deserve better,” she said.

She leaned back, looking off at nothing in particular, the maroon faux-leather stool making soft squeaking noises as her weight shifted.

“You don’t have to believe me.”

“I chose to go with you, didn’t I?”

Lane dug up another little dollop of ice cream, he could feel the spoon softly scrape the bottom of the cup. Susan tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“I’m the only relative you have though, it must not have felt like much of a choice.”

Lane lifted the cup and drank the remaining drops of melted ice cream, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

“I’m done, can we get going?”

They sat in the car in silence as it made its way along the highway. Streetlights passed over, lighting the inside of the car in short intervals. 

“So,” Lane broke the silence. “Is it really the place where Mom grew up?”

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

“Think we’ll find out what happened to her?”

“We might find some clues,” she said. “Plus, the cost of living there is really cheap.”

* * *

Lane’s head felt kind of fuzzy, light glowed red through his closed eyelids. There was something annoying happening to him and he wanted it to stop. Lane forced his leadened eyelids open at the behest of the finger excitedly jabbing him in the shoulder. Just as they passed by, he caught a glimpse of a road sign:

“Welcome to Craterton: Home of The Craterton Meteors

Population: 1,002”

As they crested the hill, a town set into the earth became clearly visible, surrounded by a circular, rocky ridge. The slope down into town was steep, but not illegally steep. Susan still drove the car a little slower than was necessary on the way down. The town was a moonlit picture of pastel americana: a malt shop, a barbershop with a spinning pole, an art gallery, and what looked like some kind of cryptid novelty shop all passed by. Further on was the center of town, a roundabout that circled a statue of a man looking through a small sextant.

Susan elbowed him.

“Hey, that’s John Crater, founder of Craterton.”

Lane was about to let out a sarcastic “Ha,” before he read the inscription on the statue that read just that.

“Huh, I could’ve sworn—”

“Yeah, the town is named after that guy. The Crater family has a pretty interesting history, even before Craterton.”

Lane braced himself for an enthusiastic monologue about the storied history of the Crater family, but it never came.

* * *

They quickly found themselves at the other end of town. Susan drove the car past the drab neo-brutalist school building and through an odd little suburb; each house quite distinct in architectural style; a mid-century two floor house sat next to a modern collection of rectangles and glass that neighbored a miniature gothic mansion with an uncomfortable aura. She continued driving, winding through the neighborhood, higher up the slight hill it was built into.

Susan said that they would know the place when they saw it.

Set slightly away from the rest, it stood out, even among the eclectic homes of the neighborhood, a winding, rusted, oddly angled structure jutted out from a steel dome, supports were bolted to it haphazardly, like something between a rollercoaster and an observatory telescope. The structure sat atop a two story bungalow that seemed to be ready to burst under its weight.

The car parked in the driveway and the siblings stepped out of the car, eyes still surveying the house that they would come to call home.

“Yep,” Susan said, putting her hands on her hips. “Mom definitely lived here.”