This was where his tire blew out that one time. It'd been cold as shit, he remembered.
The bathroom at this BP was rank, but Jack had used it often enough.
This was the rest stop where he'd got stuck in the snow once. The UPS truck driver'd helped him out. Nice fellow.
Around this turn. He'd watched the truck hit the dear in slow motion, narrowly missing its companion himself. Good thing, too, because he couldn't have been going a hair under eighty-five and he would have felt it for sure.
He had about forty miles to go before the split he had to watch out for. Well, he didn't have to watch out for it any more because his hands knew this road, but once upon a time he'd had to watch out for it.
This was the little town where he'd narrowly missed that speed-trap one time. Only missed it 'cause he'd had to pull off and pee.
This was usually the point where he started needing a cup of coffee. He wasn't feeling tired just yet, but he pulled off to the Flying J anyway, since he knew the next place was a good hundred miles. He'd made that mistake one time already.
This was about the halfway point: his promise that he was getting closer.
Had had to get gas here; next place is too far.
He'd always thought whoever named that city must have been drunk or high. Jack laughed a little under his breath at a joke he'd told himself a million times.
This was the home stretch. Four more hours and he was determined not to stop for an inch of it.
Had to slow down through this county. They liked their speed traps. They got him once, but never again.
Hadn't he already passed that truck once? Must have gotten ahead of him when he stopped for gas last time.
Finally, Jack was pulling into a trail head. He was alone, the silent woods ceding around him to grant asylum.
Stretching his body from its position, Jack turned to look back along the silent gravel road that'd led him here from the park road that'd led him there from the highway that'd led him here. He tried not to think for the millionth time the thought he always had upon his arrival: when had all the miles, all the rest stops and gas stations, come to dot his life like familiar scars? They went with him always, but signified nothing except to speak of pain he'd suffered, miles he'd scored into his soul.
With each year those miles grew closer, the turns more familiar, until he thought it was for them he made this trip, and them alone, because surely they would miss him if he didn't return.