The neon light of the "Lariat Lounge" hummed at a frequency that matched the dull throb in Elias’s temples. He sat at the bar, staring at the progress bar on his cracked smartphone screen: Downloading: Lucinda Williams - Southern Soul... 84%.

The woman two stools down froze. She didn't turn around, but her shoulders dropped an inch. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a lighter, and set it on the bar with a steady hand.

He closed his eyes and could almost hear her voice—that gravel-and-honey ache that sounded like a heartbreak that had been left out in the rain too long. He needed that sound tonight. He’d spent the last three days driving a rusted-out Ford through the kudzu-choked backroads, trying to outrun a memory of a woman who looked like a Lucinda song and smelled like cheap jasmine perfume. 98%.

Elias stared at the file. He reached for his headphones, but stopped. He looked at the woman, then at the bartender, then back at his phone. This wasn't music meant for tiny plastic buds shoved in your ears. This was music for a room.

"Almost there," he muttered, the bar's ceiling fan overhead slicing through the thick, cigarette-stained air. 92%.

Elias didn't say a word. He just ordered two whiskeys, slid one toward her, and let the southern soul do the talking for both of them.

In this corner of the Delta, the 5G was as sluggish as the river itself.