At the intersection of FM 804 and FM 607 and then to the west, a Library.
Grey stone, an arch over glass doorway, the flag pole bricked in and taller than the building itself with window tall hedges. Parking in the back, and only a stone's throw from the Henderson county Judicial Complex, another street over is the Department of Tourism.
It's all flat greenland, wide roads no better than paved country roads, the cracked tarmac sun bleached, its white lines faded, intersection lights go without signs; at the red a truck without a bed, just wood tied together flat and held with steel wire. The highway cuts the town in half, bleeds into the 175, and on the map in the Library, everything looks jumbled close, thin yellow lines and thicker blue lines and dotted grey. Miles walks his fingers two steps and he's in another state. 303 mi from the Library and eight finger steps away is a lake, a blue splotch in the shape of an uppercase 'L' and a lowercase 'V' welded together, and Waylon looks at it before folding the map and placing it in the leaning wire rack.
"What's five hours?" Miles asks, placing the stump of his index between his molars. He sees a small island behind his left eye.
"What would be the point?" Waylon says, trailing over a shelf of poetry. He stops, and pulls out a thin, glossy book, its spine creased, pages dog eared. He opens it to the middle, slightly past, and finds a List.
Miles glances at the author's name, a black scrawl on a dark blue design. Says. Quotes. Paraphrases. "He only writes poetry; says "uncontrollably" all the time."
The pages squeak between Waylon's thumb and middle fingers, and without reading the words, replies, butchers, rewrites, "Neither of us like to acknowledge it, but," He replaces the book and breathes cold water. "So do we."