They always did.
Along Falcon Ridge Road, just outside town limits, stood an abandoned grocery building that had been closed longer than most locals could remember. Its faded paint peeled under decades of sun, and weeds pushed stubbornly through cracks in the parking lot. Yet beside that forgotten structure sat a low stone wall that caught a narrow ribbon of shade each morning.
And every morning, bottles of cold water appeared there.
No sign. No camera. No explanation.
Just water.
Logan Pierce first encountered them during a solo ride across Colorado after leaving his construction job in Denver. At thirty-one, Logan preferred the silence of long roads to crowded cities. That June morning had already turned brutal before noon, heat rising from the pavement in shimmering waves that blurred the horizon.
He nearly missed the bottles.
