You stand in the middle of the road on an early morning, far too early for your taste. Usually you'd bitch and moan about having to drag your ass out of bed at this time, but somehow you don't feel tired today, not even in need of coffee.
The air smells good, crisp and fresh after the remnants of the storm, and the asphalt glimmers patchy with rain spots. Shallow puddles have formed in the pot holes and reflect the colors of the rising sun, pastel pink and orange, warm like your skin after you've scrubbed it clean in a hot shower. The world is still dripping rain drops from its hair. It's lazy like you and doesn't bother with toweling off.
With a little smile you inhale and when you rub your eyes, your fingertips are nice and cool.
The storm was good, has washed all that old dust away, cleaned the corners from the dirt of years and flushed it all down the drain. You can't really remember the details of the storm, only that it was big and scary, its thunder so loud your ears were ringing and your heart stuttered. It was a little like back when you were 9, alone with Sammy in the wilderness of Montana. The ramshackle cabin was shivering just like you then, windows, doors and shingles rattling under the onslaught of the wind. You could hear demons keening in its song, you could hear your mother wailing. Sammy held your hand so hard it hurt and in the other one you held the shotgun fully loaded and you never admitted to how fast your heart was racing.
The morning after, the air smelled a little like today. When you stepped outside, bare feet wet in the grass and hands still shaking, you deemed yourself a survivor and you imagined yourself fighting the demon with the same courage that had pulled you through the night. You now knew how to fight. It took you many years, decades even, to understand that it wasn't strength you felt, but the scabs over your wounds forming into calluses.
Slowly you rub your palms down your chest, fully aware of all the insensitive spots where your skin has grown too thick under the power of the recoil. You're pleasantly surprised to find yourself wearing the leather jacket. Of course you would in this weather and after all you've always liked it best because it fits like a second skin, worn in all the best ways. Only on the edges is the leather crumbling, broken like sun crackled soil even though you've always taken good care of it. Maybe it was already like that when Dad gave it to you – it's been so long you can't really remember – and maybe it's just time. That's what time does, nibbling away on the corners of what you hold dear.
"Dean! You wanna get going or what?"
You turn around and there's Sam waiting by the passenger door of your baby, smiling brightly, arms stretched out like he's going to try and grab the whole world.
"Come on," he says impatiently and gets in before you can tell him to hold his horses for an old man.
You walk over and hum when your step is easy and strong, joints bending without complaint. Not even your knee or your hips are acting up although they don't like the rain.
The car is all sleek curves and sharp edges, polished chrome and wax on her paint coat. Your index finger follows the ridge of the door before you open it and you listen closely to the squeaking of the jambs. You get in your seat and then you kind of laugh, like an amused snort, because it's just a seat and why should it feel any more perfect than any other chair or bench or bed even that you've ever sat on? It's just a seat.
But it's yours and Sammy sits in his and he's looking at you, big eyes so excited although you're just in the car, and then his eyes flick to the road and you agree.
The keys are already in. All you need to do is lean forward and turn them.
You drive throughout the morning, Sam in the passenger seat and you looking out at the road and at some point you nod to yourself, content.
The temperatures climb fast. It gets warm enough to shed the jacket and then your button down too, but not that hot that you'd start to sweat or that your back would stick to the seat because you can't stand that. You roll the windows down and let the wind cool you and with the sound of the engine and asphalt under the wheels, there's only one thing missing.
The tape starts mid-song, a beat you could drum in your sleep. "Much obliged for such a pleasant stay, but now it's time for me to go." You sing along and poke Sam until he joins in and the car's going fast and steady, and you take the small winding roads just so you can hear her purr when you race around the corners.
Later, when Sam says, "They're making good pie here," you pull over.
You take your seats outside under a maple tree. The sunlight falls through the leaves and paints spots on Sam's face, playing hide and seek with the moles there. One by his nose and one on his chin and one right next to the corner of his mouth. You used to count them all when you were little. You learned them by heart and always knew their number and place even under that stupid thick beard that never made Sam look any older, only more morose, but he wouldn't listen to you.
The waitress brings you pecan pie and coffee, black as tar as it's supposed to be for you and with cream and chocolate sprinkles for the princess. While you're eating, you look at the jagged silhouette of a mountain range, softened by the distance. It reminds you of a place, some quiet place, and you were happy because Dad could walk again and he bought treats for you and Sammy.
Sam keeps looking at you, but you don't say anything because he looks happy. Maybe he remembers too.
And because it's quiet here, nothing but birds and wind and whispering grass, you stay until there's room enough in your stomach for another round of pie, peach this time. The pastry crumbles under your fork. After you've finished, you pick up every last crumb with your fingertips and then push them against the roof of your mouth with your tongue until they're soaked and soft and your tongue covered in delicious buttery sugary taste. Sam watches you with a grin like he knows what you're doing. You contemplate licking the plate just to disgust him but the waitress steals it from you before you can.
She likes you, you can tell. Instead of slipping you her phone number, she hands you a paper bag with two pieces of apple pie. "Because you haven't tried that one yet. Chef's speciality," she says.
"Let's stay here forever," you say to Sam and that makes him laugh. Ten minutes later you're out on the road again.