Sure, Sam would have loved to travel across the world. He would have loved to see Rome and London and Ireland and other exotic places. But not enough. Getting to anywhere interesting required more than just a car, steady and firmly on the ground – it required an airplane. And that wasn't a sacrifice Sam was willing to make.
He knew the statistics – he was more likely to die in a car crash than an airplane crash, but the way he saw it, he'd rather die in a car crash. At least it wouldn't involve falling out of the sky at five hundred miles an hour. And being able to do absolutely nothing about it.
Yes, sir, Sam was happy driving. Besides, cars were his thing. In his opinion, nothing was better than hearing the sound of an engine growling beneath him, bending to his every whim, totally under his control. As much as he loved him some Metallica, sometimes he just had to turn off the radio to listen to the engine of his '70 Oldsmobile purr. His girlfriend thought he was crazy. He thought she was just annoyed that he didn't pay attention to her like that.
For him, driving the five hundred miles to Kansas was easy. He had his car, his tapes, and enough money for three weeks of motel rent and fast food. But knowing what to do once he was there was another thing entirely. Vague ideas of library visits and something having to do with releasing public records and lawyers filled his head, but he was putting off making a plan because making a plan would make it real. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to be real yet.
Right now, he was Sam Flint. He had his own business in Chicago and celebrated his birthday on November 4th. He sometimes drank too much and sometimes slept too little, and every once in a while, he liked to visit Sidetrack, a local gay bar. So even if he had no basis for comparison, he knew exactly who he was.
But there were also pieces missing. There were things he didn't know. Things that had always bothered him. Like why he'd always had a problem with drinking, or when his real birthday was, or whether or not the whole sexuality thing was genetic. Did his dad grow facial hair like he did? Did he have his mother's eyes? From which side of the family did he get his freckles, or his blonde hair, or his great taste in music?
A part of him wanted to know – needed to know – but another part, equally strong, cautioned him. It told him that there were things he'd be better off not knowing, and that no matter what he found, he'd probably be disappointed. Knowing would change everything, and he might never be able to go back to being 'Just Sam' again. Who even knew if Sam was his real name? It could have just as easily been a street or a sign or the name of one of the medics that had picked him up on the side of the road or – the name of someone in his family?
He wasn't sure what made him think it, but he had never been one to put too much merit in subconscious thought, so he ignored it. Besides, he had more important things to concentrate on. Like the fact that he had just passed the 'Welcome to Kansas' sign, and his GPS told him he had exactly an hour and sixteen minutes before he was back in the same place he might have been born. Anxiety blossomed in his stomach, and he abruptly wished he'd brought a six pack with him. But he'd already had one DUI and he wasn't eager to have another one, so he pushed down the urge and concentrated on navigating the bumpy stretch of Kansas highway in front of him.