The first thing Solomon Carth noticed about Montana was the sky.
Not the "wow, look at the clouds" sky you see in pictures, but the real kind—wide enough that it made you feel small, like you'd stepped into a different scale of world. In Texas, the horizon was big too, sure, but it had noise. Heat shimmer. Highways. City glow bleeding up at night.
Here, the sky looked clean. Like somebody had wiped it down with a paper towel.
Sol sat in the back seat of the SUV, knees angled around a cardboard box marked SOL—ROOM in his mom's careful handwriting. The box smelled faintly like Sharpie and detergent, and if he leaned forward he could catch the scent of the pine air leaking in through the cracked window—cold-ish, even though it was late summer.
His phone was in his hand out of habit. The screen showed one bar that flickered like it was embarrassed to exist.
"Don't fight it," his dad said, eyes on the road. "It's not gonna win."
Sol let out a quiet laugh. "It's not even trying."
His dad—Darnell Carth—had that calm, heavy voice that made it sound like he was always halfway through a briefing. He wore a plain black T-shirt that hugged his arms without trying to flex, and his left forearm rested on the door with the ease of someone who'd spent years being comfortable in uncomfortable places. The sun lit the edge of his close-cropped hair and the faintest hint of gray at his temples.
His mom—Nia—sat in the passenger seat, twisting around to check on Sol every few minutes like he might vanish between states. Her hair was wrapped in a neat scarf today, and she'd put on hoop earrings even for a road trip, because she refused to become the kind of person who "just threw anything on."
"Montana doesn't need your internet," she said, like she could hear his thoughts. "Montana has… trees. And cows."
"Don't forget the mountains," his dad added.
"And people who know each other's business," his mom said, smiling like she'd already accepted this was going to be a story she told later.
Sol looked out the window at the two-lane road stretching ahead, framed by pines and a few scattered ranch fences. A handmade sign came and went: CEDAR RIDGE — 12 MILES.
The name sounded like something from a postcard.
The moving day outfit he'd chosen was a mix of comfort and stubbornness. A charcoal hoodie with an old faded red longhorn graphic—the kind of hoodie that had survived spilled soda, gym sweat, and teenage moods—and dark denim jeans with that new-pack crease still lingering in the fabric. His black low-top sneakers were scuffed at the toes, and his watch sat snug on his wrist. The watch was simple, black band, no fancy face. His dad had given it to him on his fifteenth birthday and said, Time matters. Don't waste it.
Sol didn't know if he believed that yet, but he wore it anyway.
As they rolled closer to Cedar Ridge, the world shrank into details.
A mailbox cluster with names painted on wood. A lean-to shed stacked with split firewood like it was a summer hobby. A dog—big, tan, tail high—trotting along a gravel driveway like it owned the county.
Then the town appeared not as a skyline, but as a handful of buildings gathered like they were huddling against the wind.
A small grocery store with a faded mural. A gas station with two pumps and an American flag that looked like it had been living out here longer than Sol had been alive. A diner with big windows and a neon sign that buzzed like it had opinions.
The SUV slowed, and Sol caught his reflection in the window—deep brown skin, short coils cut into a clean fade, dark eyes that always looked like he was thinking too hard. He didn't look like a movie hero. He looked like a kid who'd been told, We're moving, and had nodded like he didn't care even though his stomach had dropped.
His mom pointed at the diner. "That's where we're meeting them."
"The friends," Sol said.
His dad's mouth twitched. "They're more family than friends. You remember Uncle Wade?"
"Not really." Sol had been little the last time they'd visited. He remembered a laugh, big hands, and a dog that had licked his face until he cried.
"They've been waiting on us," his mom said. "And they know you're coming."
Sol's stomach did another small flip. Everybody knows I'm coming. That was the thing about towns that looked like this. There weren't enough people to be anonymous.
The SUV pulled into a gravel lot. Tires crunched. Dust lifted and fell. Sol watched the diner windows like a stage curtain, expecting the whole town to turn and stare.
Only half the diner turned.
And that was somehow worse.
---
Inside, the diner smelled like coffee that had been brewed for decades and didn't mind. There was bacon somewhere. Toast. Syrup. The kind of smell that stuck to your hoodie and made your stomach forget its pride.
A bell jingled as they walked in. Sol felt the air shift—not hostile, exactly. More like… curious. Like a room full of people who had time to notice everything.
His mom walked like she belonged. Sol admired that. He followed, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, shoulders relaxed on purpose. His dad moved with that quiet awareness that didn't announce itself but made space anyway.
A booth near the back waved at them.
A man stood up—tall, broad, red-faced in a healthy outdoors way. He wore a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a baseball cap that looked sun-baked. He grinned like he was genuinely happy, not socially obligated.
"Darnell!" the man boomed.
"Wade," Sol's dad said, and the handshake that followed looked less like greeting and more like history. Their hands clasped, pulled in, shoulder bump, the kind of greeting that said I'm glad you made it without words.
A woman stood with him—blonde hair pulled into a quick ponytail, soft flannel shirt in a pale blue, jeans, and boots that had seen weather. Her eyes were sharp but kind, like she'd learned how to read people fast. She hugged Sol's mom and then turned to Sol like she was deciding how to greet him without making him feel like a child.
"You must be Solomon," she said.
Sol nodded. "Yeah. Sol's fine."
Her smile widened. "Sol. I'm Lila. We're glad you're here."
Wade clapped Sol on the shoulder—not hard, just a weighty, friendly touch. "Man, you got big. Last time I saw you, you were like—" he held his hand around waist height "—knee-high and mad at my dog."
Sol couldn't stop the smile that tugged at him. "Your dog was… disrespectful."
Wade laughed loud enough that a couple people nearby looked over like they approved of the sound.
They slid into the booth. Vinyl squeaked. Sol sat on the inside edge, where he could see the entrance and the windows without looking like he was checking exits. Old habits from training: awareness without panic.
A waitress came by—older, hair in a bun, name tag that said RUTH.
"Well, well," she said, looking at Sol with open curiosity. "This them Carths I been hearing about?"
Sol's mom smiled bright. "We're famous already?"
Ruth shrugged like fame was a small-town currency. "Small towns don't got much entertainment. We take what we can get."
Sol felt his dad's elbow nudge his, gentle. Breathe. It's not a threat.
Ruth looked at Sol's hoodie. "Texas boy?"
Sol nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
She squinted like she was evaluating a steak. "You talk polite. That'll help you."
Kaylee—he didn't know her name yet—was the first girl he noticed because she was the only one who turned and didn't try to pretend she hadn't.
She sat two booths away with two other girls. She had strawberry-blonde hair, half clipped up, and she wore a cream knit sweater with sleeves that swallowed her hands. A mustard-yellow puffer vest was draped over the booth beside her like she couldn't decide if it was winter yet. When her eyes met Sol's, she didn't look away fast. She looked like she was trying to guess his whole story in five seconds.
Then she smiled like it was a dare.
Sol's face stayed neutral on reflex, but his eyebrows lifted the smallest amount.
She mouthed something—he couldn't hear it over Wade talking and Ruth laughing—but it looked suspiciously like: Texas.
Sol glanced down at his hoodie like it was snitching. When he looked back, she was already talking to the girls with her, but her grin was still there, like a bookmark.
A second girl sat with that group—clean, composed, hair clipped back, black top tucked neatly into high-waisted jeans. Her posture was straight even in a diner booth, like slouching was illegal. She looked up briefly, eyes calm and evaluating, then went right back to the open book in front of her. The book had sticky tabs. Multiple. A person who planned.
The third girl was athletic—team jacket, hair pulled up, small hoops in her ears. She didn't look at Sol right away. She looked at his dad first. Then at Sol's hands. Then back to his face. Like she was studying the way he held himself.
Sol didn't like being studied.
He also couldn't deny it was… interesting that she didn't look away.
Wade was talking about the town like he was giving a tour.
"School starts next week. Cedar Ridge High's not huge—everybody knows everybody, and if they don't, they will by lunch. We got football, wrestling, volleyball. Rodeo stuff. FFA. People do outdoors out here—hunting, hiking, fishing."
Sol's mom's eyes sparkled. "And what do the kids do for fun? Besides… all that?"
Wade shrugged. "Same thing people always did. They hang out. They actually—" he made air quotes with big fingers "—hang out. Drive around, bonfires, diner, lake days while it's warm. Some of 'em got internet, but it's spotty. A lot of folks don't care about it."
Sol looked at his phone again. One bar. Flicker. Defeat.
"It's like the nineties," his mom whispered, amused.
"It's like peace," Wade said seriously, then laughed like he'd made a joke.
Ruth returned with menus even though it felt like she already knew what everyone in the booth would order.
"What you want, Sol?" Wade asked, leaning back. "First meal in Cedar Ridge. Choose wisely."
Sol scanned the menu—burger, chicken fried steak, breakfast all day. It looked like the kind of place where the food wasn't trying to impress you. It was trying to keep you alive.
"Burger," Sol decided. "And fries."
"That's a safe choice," his dad said.
Sol side-eyed him. "You eat burgers."
His dad's expression stayed calm. "I eat burgers responsibly."
Sol's mom snorted into her water.
Across the diner, the strawberry-blonde girl leaned across her booth and whispered something to the athletic one. The athletic girl's eyes flicked to Sol again, quick and sharp.
Then she looked away like she'd decided something.
Sol found himself watching the way the composed girl turned a page. Slow. Deliberate. Like she treated paper with respect. There was something about that—someone who was careful with small things.
His dad nudged him again, subtle. "You okay?"
Sol nodded, but his eyes stayed on the room. "Just… different."
Wade leaned forward, voice dropping like it was a secret. "You'll get used to it. Folks here stare because they're curious, not because they're mean. Most of the time."
Most of the time.
That small add-on landed like a pebble in Sol's shoe.
His mom's gaze softened. "We got you," she said, like she could hear the pebble too.
Sol swallowed and nodded again.
Ruth returned to take orders. When she got to Sol, she paused.
"What's your name again, sweetheart?"
"Solomon," he said.
She narrowed her eyes playfully. "No nickname?"
"Sol," he said, then added quickly, "if that's okay."
Ruth smiled. "We'll see if you earn it."
She walked away before he could figure out what that meant.
Sol leaned back, the booth squeaking under him, and breathed through his nose the way his Wing Chun instructor had taught him when nerves tried to hijack his body. In for four, out for four. Smooth.
Across the diner, the strawberry-blonde girl finally stood up, grabbing her mustard vest like it was a cape. She walked past Sol's booth with the confidence of somebody who'd been here her whole life.
As she passed, she angled her head just enough to catch his eye.
"You're really from Texas?" she asked, like they were already mid-conversation.
Her voice was bright. Teasing. Not mean.
Sol blinked once. "Last time I checked."
She grinned. "So you do talk like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're in a movie," she said, then pointed at his hoodie. "Also, your shirt is loud."
"It's a hoodie."
"Loud hoodie," she corrected.
Sol couldn't help the small smile that escaped. "It's sentimental."
She tilted her head. "Aw. That's almost adorable."
Then she held out her hand like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Kaylee."
Sol hesitated half a beat—the instinctive don't touch strangers reflex—then shook her hand. Her grip was warm and quick.
"Sol," he said.
Her eyes flicked to his watch. "You look like someone who's always on time."
"My dad's fault," Sol said without thinking.
Kaylee laughed, pleased. "Yeah, okay. Welcome to Cedar Ridge, Sol."
She started walking away, then paused like she remembered something important.
"Oh—quick warning," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "This town doesn't have secrets. It has… schedules. If you do anything interesting, it'll be public by dinner."
Sol stared at her. "That's horrifying."
Kaylee's grin widened. "It's kind of fun. Sometimes."
Then she was gone, sliding back into her booth like she'd just dropped off a welcome gift.
Sol sat there a second, feeling weirdly lighter and also more exposed.
Wade watched him, amused. "That one's Kaylee. Loudest kid in the school."
Sol's mom leaned in, eyes bright in that way moms get when they sense plot. "She seems friendly."
Sol stared at his menu like it could save him. "She seems like trouble."
His dad's mouth twitched. "That's not always a bad thing."
Sol looked back across the diner.
The composed girl with the book glanced up again. This time, her eyes held his for a second longer, like she was mentally filing his name away. Then she went back to reading, expression unchanged.
The athletic girl—team jacket—still hadn't fully met his gaze again. But her posture had shifted, like she was paying attention without wanting anyone to notice she was paying attention.
And at the counter, a quiet girl in a dark green parka and knitted beanie sat with an older couple, hands wrapped around a mug like she was borrowing warmth. Her braid hung over one shoulder. When she noticed Sol looking, she startled slightly and looked down fast, cheeks going faintly pink.
Sol looked away first, because he wasn't trying to be the new kid who stared.
But his chest felt… tight. Not fear. Something else.
Like the moment right before you step onto a mat and bow in.
Everything was new. Everyone was watching. And he didn't get to choose whether he was in the middle of it.
He only got to choose how he moved.
Ruth returned with water refills and a raised eyebrow. "You settling in okay, Texas?"
Sol exhaled a laugh. "I just got here."
Ruth nodded like she respected that. "Good. Don't try to be somebody else. Cedar Ridge eats fake for breakfast."
She walked off again, leaving Sol with the uncomfortable sense that the town had teeth but didn't bite unless you gave it a reason.
His dad leaned back in the booth, relaxed now that the family friends were in front of him, like a piece of him had unclenched. "We'll get the house unloaded tonight," he said. "Tomorrow we'll check the school, get your schedule, see what you need."
Sol nodded, fingers tapping his watch once, then stilling.
Outside, the sky stretched wide and indifferent. Inside, the diner hummed with voices that didn't need Wi-Fi to carry.
And Sol—average kid from Texas, in a hoodie that didn't match the weather—realized Cedar Ridge wasn't going to let him stay invisible.
Not with people like Kaylee smiling at him like he belonged.
Not with strangers already calling him Texas.
Not with the feeling in his gut that this place was going to change him whether he liked it or not.
He took a slow breath.
"Alright," he murmured, mostly to himself.
"Alright," his mom echoed, smiling like she'd heard him.
Wade slapped the table. "Welcome to Cedar Ridge!"
Sol looked around one more time—at the booths, the faces, the tiny town-sized universe—and let the moment settle.
He wasn't home.
But he wasn't alone, either.
Not anymore.