Colin Wright could not have found himself on a map if he tried. But perhaps it was just as well, because he couldn't have found The Dew Drop Café on a map either.

   For over an hour, he had been driving down the same road without coming to an exit, or even any signs of civilisation. The road was edged with thick woods covered in lush kudzu. The only illumination was his car's milky yellow headlights. He wanted to truly understand this place of drowsing flowers, of oaks laden with moss, of love sharpened with whiskey. He felt like such an outsider. And, he reflected, one is never in the best state of mind when attending a wedding. Especially alone.

   He watched the murky midnight landscape flow past the car window like a dirty river—lights and colours were hazy and almost everything was tinged green.

   He began to fiddle with the old radio, turning the dial, which hadn't been moved in so long it creaked. Country, country, bluegrass, blues, blues. None of which Colin minded, none of which he really wanted to hear. He gave up a few minutes later, settling on a station playing an old recording by Nina Simone. Her voice drawled sweetly on and made him dream of fresh coffee: "I want a little sugar in my bowl...I want some steam on my clothes..."

   He hadn't anticipated the length of this drive. If he had had to ballpark it, he would have said the route from Gibson Florida to New Orleans was two and a half hours. Judging by the dim light of the radio clock he had been going for almost five. He sighed. Shit, I'm probably in Texas by now.

   It occurred to Colin again that he should not have driven alone. It had been less than a week since the incident, and he was empty, his heart pallid and drained. His cigarettes were starting to taste stale. His fingers left damp imprints on the fragile paper. Even with the windows rolled down, and the sun long set, this harsh southern summer filled his lungs with heady mist. His mind was listing, filled with smoke and sweat and longing.

   How much further would he have to drive down this endless dark highway before he saw anything, anything at all? A trickle of fine sand fell beneath his eyelids. He blinked hard. He searched the road for a moment, at the lonely trails of his headlights. No one else was around. He should pull over and get some sleep.

Beyond the headlights, beyond the edges of the rain-slick road, there was only a wild thicket of trees and vines and shadow. He started looking for a break in the heavy wall of vegetation, where he could pull in and hide the truck. He didn’t need any jackass highway cops poking around. Not with the amount of weed in the glove compartment. He searched the dim jagged horizon out the side window. There had to be some kind of dirt road here, a trail, anything.

   And then, he saw shafts of light. Warm light, golden almost, filtering through the trees in fragile rays. He slowed as he approached. A small dive bar? No. Too well-hidden. Someone’s house? He pushed his full curls out of his eyes, tried to slick them back with sweat. Squinted. His interest was certainly piqued, but he was cautious. He had been dubiously led astray by boredom before. The source of that light could be a charmingly secluded bed-and-breakfast, or a shack full of shotgun-toting holy rollers.

   But as soon as he reached the lights, and the rays fell through the side window, bathing his face, stinging his eyes, he saw the break. It was a small dusty road, studded with small gleaming white objects. Like pearls. But they couldn’t possibly be pearls. Shells, most likely. He hesitated, then directed the truck down the dirt road. What the hell, he thought. Any port in a storm.

   The road was incredibly rocky, and the truck and all of its contents seemed to rumble down. Colin couldn’t see much ahead of him, just the unpaved road with its thickening clusters of shells. The oak tree limbs closed overhead, lacing through and through, until he felt he was passing through some kind of leafy tunnel.

   When he lowered the window, he was struck by the immediate, intense scent of roses. He quickly rolled his window back up. The scent was too strong. It had seemed to invade his senses, blotting out his nose with sweetness, coating his tongue with venomous nectar, sliding around his eyes with thorny tentacles. “Jesus,” he whispered, wiping furiously at his face.

   Suddenly the headlights met the warm light, and together, they illuminated the swinging tavern-style sign, upon which The Dew Drop Café was emblazoned. The café was a little building, with a high eaved roof and many windows. The walls were river rocks, smooth pebbles that glistened in the humidity. The café was bordered on the right by thick forests, and on the left by a tented produce stand. Beyond the stand, Colin saw what he thought must have been a large garden, filled with glowing white roses.

   Colin felt drawn to the quaint place. Jasmine vines twined through the rocky façade and around the lantern sconces on each side of the door. But it was the door himself that intrigued him. Its stained-glass window was impossibly intricate—red crystal roses linked with silver webs, studded with iridescent dew. On the clear glass doorknob was a little sign. Presumably it was an open-closed sign, but the letters were strange, angular, and somehow familiar.

   Colin parked in front of the café in an attitude of indecision. Light shone through the varicoloured facets of the stained-glass window, and he thought he heard the low hum of many voices beyond. Surely there would be coffee there. Maybe a little bite to eat or some espresso would perk him up enough to get to New Orleans, but most importantly, he could get some directions.

   Just as he opened his door, the café door swung open, and someone came out.