Ryan Smithers woke up to the sound of the door closing. He reached up, grabbed his glasses and shoved them onto his face. It was his father coming in, a towel draped around his shoulders.

"You're awake," Waylon remarked as he ran the towel over his damp hair. "Ready to hit the road?"

Ryan sat up, pushing the blanket off, and swung his thin legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face numbly. "Breakfast?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.

"There's a continental going on in the lobby," replied Waylon. "It looks pretty nice. They have eggs, waffles, a fruit bar…"

Groggily, Ryan tried to listen as his father listed off the various foods he'd seen. It was too much to make sense of. Ryan, like many his age, was not a morning person. Given his choice, he'd sleep till mid-morning if he could. His first period classes in high school had been the bane of his existence. Who on earth thought it would be a good idea to start the morning with calculus at eight AM? Ryan was sure he didn't know.

He straightened the cuffs of his boxers and looked at his bare feet for a moment. With a grunt and a sigh, he pushed himself. "I'm going to go get breakfast then," he said, pulling on a pair of dark jeans and the same white athletic shirt he'd worn the day before. It looked clean, smelled clean. It was fine. "Are you getting breakfast?" he asked Waylon as he fumbled with his shoes.

Waylon shook his head. "I don't generally take breakfast."

"Where'd you go then?" Ryan asked.

"For a run," replied his father as he pulled a set of clean clothes from his travel bag. "Then I finished up with some weight lifting and a quick dip in the pool."

Ryan glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's only seven in the morning," he observed. "You did that already?"

His father paused, glanced up. "I got into the habit of working out early in the morning years ago. Now, if I don't, I can't feel quite right for the rest of the day."

Ryan couldn't think of anything to say to that. He grunted, and stuck his key card in his pocket. "Okay. So, when are we leaving?"

"After you're done with breakfast," Waylon answered. "But take your time."

Ryan ate in silence, watching the few patrons around him. It was mostly truckers and business folk, it seemed. Pleasant types, but the sort to keep to themselves. The television in the corner was showing the news. He ate quickly, lost in thought.

It felt strange to be on his own, stranger still to be with his father. He didn't know how to act around the man. The man was pleasant, yet reserved. Ryan found himself increasingly at odds with his own emotions.

His mind was a confused mess of feelings he wasn't even sure how to identify. On one hand, he found he was actually enjoying his time with Waylon; that made him both happy and guilty at the same time. He felt both glad to spend time with his father, and yet it was as if he were somehow betraying his mother's memory by enjoying his father's company. Happiness and guilt, those were two feelings he could pick out from the mess.

There was sadness too, and denial. Sometimes, he could almost disbelieve his mother was actually dead. It wasn't intentional. It came on without warning. He knew, rationally, she was gone. But it was as if his feelings hadn't quite gotten the memo.

When they'd pass an interesting scene or city, he found a surge of anticipation. I can't wait to tell Mom about this! his brain would cheer. Then reality would rise up and hit him like a truck. There was no more 'mom' to tell this to. The only one he'd get to share the moments with was himself. He'd withdrawn back into himself, and try to block out the world.

And his father? Well, that wasn't any less confusing.

Waylon was the only family he had now.

Every fiber in his lonely body cried out to latch onto Waylon, cling to his father, and never let go.

Pride on the other hand kept him from reaching out. He was a man, not a little boy. He was too old to need someone else like that. And even, he rationalized, if he wasn't too old, if he bonded with his father he'd be betraying his mother. So really, what choice did he have?

None, I guess, he concluded.

Ryan was into his second bowl of fruit when a shadow passed over the table. He looked up. His father was standing there, both their bags slung across his shoulders. "How're you doing?" Waylon asked, not yet sitting down.

Ryan stared at the table. How was he doing anyhow. He thought for a minute. Eventually, he gave the only answer that felt honest.

"I think I'm going to explode."

His father put a hand on his shoulder. "Did you eat too much?"

"Not like that," Ryan replied, drawing away from Waylon's hand on principle.

Waylon must've sensed Ryan's discomfort. He removed his hand, and took a step back, giving the young man some space.

Ryan immediately regretted his actions, and missed his father's proximity.

He looked at the remaining fruit, and realized he'd lost his appetite. "No," he replied, "I'm good. We can go now."

The next hours were spent in the Durango, Ryan alternating between moments of conversation, and silence. They listened to the radio but nothing seemed particularly catch. Finally Waylon asked if he could plug his .mp3 player into the stereo. Ryan shrugged, and connected it.

He scrolled through his father's extensive music collection.

"You like some of everything, don't you," he observed after reading through a playlist dedicated to classical guitar and other stringed instruments.

Waylon smiled. "That's one thing my mother and I always had in common. She loved music, all types. Was quite skilled at the piano too."

Ryan's ears pricked up. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face. "Do you play an instrument?" he asked.

Surprisingly, his father blushed. "I, eh, yes."

"Like what?" Ryan pushed. In highschool, Ryan and his friends had formed a garage band for a time. They played mostly alternative rock and occasionally grunge music. It hadn't lasted long, mostly because none of their parents wanted them practicing in their garages, so, due to lack of practice space, the band broke apart. He'd played an electric bass guitar. Nothing fancy or expensive, but he'd enjoyed it. Up till he sold it, that is. The memory turned bitter sweet. He sighed, and hoped Waylon hadn't noticed.

"I… I play the piano. Also guitar, both acoustic and electric. I can play the banjo… that's a long story there." Waylon hesitated. "I also can play the harp."

His dad could do all that? Ryan tried not to look impressed. Conversely, he forced himself to look as unimpressed as possible. He shifted his position, and folded his legs so he was curled up in the seat, leaning against the window. "Oh? That's it?"

Waylon didn't take his eyes off the road. "Well, I can sing too. And I wrote a musical. It was performed in Albuquerque several years ago. It never got the fame I was hoping for, but it was something I needed to do; if that makes sense."

Ryan ran a hand along his chin thoughtfully. "Why? And how'd you ever manage to get the time for that?"

Waylon's grin widened. "Oh, Monty, Mister Burns, he gave me the time off to do it. I'd always wanted to write this musical, and what with work and all, there wasn't the time. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask him, and he said 'yes.'" Waylon chuckled. "Sure, he teased me about it, but then he gave me the time off to make it happen."

"So he just let you do it?"

Waylon furrowed his brow. "Of course! Why wouldn't he?"

Ryan snorted. "Do I really need to answer that? You know what I think of him."

"You don't even know him," Waylon replied, tone defensive. "For the record, he's not as one-dimensional as you seem to think he is. Sure, Mister Burns can be callous, ill-tempered, and difficult to know, but that's not all he is."

Ryan picked at his fingernails and tried to appear casual. Now they were getting somewhere. He waited, hoping his father would reveal more. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

Waylon continued. "He's… complicated. Our whole friendship can be summed up in that word, honestly. Yes, sometimes he can seem downright cruel, but whenever it's been something truly important to me, he's always been there to support it. Or the time, two times I suppose, that I almost died. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't wait till the last minute to show me how much he cares, but he does."

Ryan's chest felt suddenly tight. Almost died? As in, he could've been an orphan? As in, he might've never had a chance to even know his father? Ryan felt like he couldn't breathe. In his mind's eye, he saw himself standing at two grave stones, one for his mother, and one for the father he'd barely known.

Quickly, Ryan turned his face away from Waylon and wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

"Ryan," his father asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"You almost died," Ryan replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I wouldn't have had anyone if you did."

"Hey, hey," his father coaxed gently. "But I didn't, right? I'm here, now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Ryan sniffled, feeling both overwhelmed and embarrassed in one. "How'd it happen, anyhow?"

Waylon sighed. "Well, I have thyroid condition. Without my medication, well, I could die. Long story short, I wasn't able to afford it once. My throat nearly swelled shut. Monty? He moved pretty much moved heaven and earth to get my medication to me. If he hadn't, if it had been much longer, I probably would've died."

"Why not just go to the hospital?" Ryan asked, staring out the window.

"There was a shortage of prescription medications in Springfield. Even the hospital couldn't have gotten it in time. Mister Burns, he's a powerful man. He has a way of getting what he wants, what he needs."

Ryan rubbed his aching chest, trying to massage the tension away. "Right," he replied dryly. "And the second time?"

Now it was Waylon's turn to sound disgusted. "That was my fault. I... I took the Martin out for a joy ride. I don't honestly remember what happened. Apparently I lost control and collided side-on with a telephone pole. The pole snapped in half, and the car basically exploded. When I came too in the hospital Monty was there. I guess he hadn't left my side the whole time I'd been unconscious. He didn't say it, but I knew how scared he'd been. I could see it in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days."

Ryan listened to his father's words, the older man's tone. There was a sadness to it that Ryan didn't quite understand.

"So if he does all that, why does he act like such a jerk?"

"He's complicated."

"You say that a lot," Ryan replied. "What's that even mean, anyhow? 'Complicated.'"

"I mean," explained "Waylon, that his life wasn't exactly the happiest and he'd had some pretty horrible things done to him. It skewed his outlook on the world, and the people in it."

Ryan, feeling more in control of his emotions, situated himself so he could watch Waylon, give the man his full attention once again. "Such as…?" he asked.

"Monty's father, Clifford, was a loving man. Over-protective, but he only wanted the best for his family. Unfortunately, Monty wasn't raised by his father. He was raised by his grandfather, Wainwright. That man, I don't know if there's an instability in Monty's family, or if the man was simply a monster. I'm not even sure it matters. All I know is I'm glad he's dead." He spat the last words with a harshness Ryan hadn't seen before.

"After I went with Monty to Wainwright's plantation, and let me tell you that place should've been demolished decades ago, he came back acting not quite himself. We were only there for an afternoon, and yet it was enough to make him act… different. Cruel." Waylon held up a hand, raising it from the wheel. "Now, I know what you're going to say Ryan, that he's probably usually cruel… and in some ways, you'd be right… but not like this. There was a certain savagery to his demeanor that I hadn't seen before. Fortunately, after several days at home he was back to normal. But Belledouleur, that place, it got in his head."

Waylon dropped his hand back on the wheel, and glanced at the fuel gauge. They'd have to stop soon.

"I didn't know much about Wainwright, so once we got home, I started looking up everything I could find. It wasn't easy, the internet wasn't what it is now. But I found a few things. More than I wanted to." He sighed. "The man was a tyrant. And not in any metaphorical sense; a truly literal one! One of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest plantation owners during the antebellum era. Before the war, there was already a reputation for his cruelty towards his slaves. After the war, when slavery was illegal, rumors of a mass grave of former slaves on his property. There were other strange stories too, but they might have been legends. Animals born deformed, with extra legs, or missing eyes. Things like that. Those I could discount, but then I read about how a the children of sharecroppers tended to wind up missing on his plantation, never to be found again. Of course, they blamed it on the alligators in the nearby swamps, but some people started to say that Wainwright was dabbling in dark things no man should fool around with."

Waylon tilted his head. "At the same time though, he was still a prominent member of society. He hosted elaborate parties at his plantation. Some speculated that rumors had merely been started by those jealous of him. And yet, let me be perfectly honest with your Ryan, if I had my way, I would've burned that place to the ground as soon as I left."

"Why?" Ryan asked, perplexed.

His father gave a mirthless laugh. "Why? Have you ever been someplace that just felt wrong, somehow? Like it wasn't part of the natural order of things?" Waylon gave another short chuckle. "God, I probably sound like I'm the one with issues here, but I don't know what to say. That place, if ever a piece of land and house could be evil, that place is."

Ryan shifted. He could relate to a degree.

When he was a child, there had been an abandoned house next to a vacant lot a few streets down. It hadn't even been a particularly old house, but there were a lot of stories about it.

There were all manner of rumors about it: that it was haunted, that a murderer once hid bodies there. Kids would dare each other to go up on to the porch and knock on the door. The place, despite being abandoned, remained relatively free of vandalism or graffiti; as if no one were brave enough to mark it.

Mitty had dared Ryan to actually go inside once. Ryan had replied only if Mitty went too. After a game of trash-talking, which was more just a way to delay actually approaching the house, Mitty and Ryan decided they'd go in together. They'd made it across the porch, and were just about to try the front door when the wind must've changed, or something. The door swung open on its own.

Screaming like little girls, Mitty and Ryan nearly fell over each other in an attempt to flee. They didn't stop running for several blocks.

Finally, in an ally beside the dumpster for the bakery, Mitty stopped. Ryan, panting as if his lungs would burst leaned against the wall next to him. I wasn't scared, Mitty gasped, trying to catch his breath. I was just trying to scare you.

I wasn't scared either, Ryan replied as he sucked air greedily into his burning lungs. I was just playing along.

The two boys had tried to laugh, but it didn't feel natural. It was a lie. They both knew they'd never been more terrified of anything in their lives. Neither one of them ever went near that abandoned row house again. Even now, years later, thinking about it still caused the hair on Ryan's neck and arms to rise.

"Yes," Ryan said, remembering. "I know that feeling."

"That place, it's not good for Monty's head," explained Waylon Smithers after they'd stopped for a bathroom break, and fuel. "Honestly, I don't know whether it's from the memories of his grandfather, or if it's from Belledouleur itself. Frankly I don't care either. Maybe this time, I will set it on fire behind us. It would be a fitting end to that past. And Wainwright," Waylon continued bitterly, "he's one of the few people in the world I can say it's good he's gone. I never even met him, and I'm glad he's dead."
Ryan watched the dry desert lowland through the window. "Why would you say that?"

"Oh, Ryan, I don't want to talk about this. Can we pick a cheerier topic for a while?"

"I suppose," agreed Ryan. He watched the ever-flattening land, skyline reflecting in his eyes. After a moment, he broke the silence. "I still kind of want to travel along Route 66 someday," he confessed.

"We're on it," replied Waylon with a grin.

Ryan sat up and pushed himself forward om his seat. "Whoa! We are?"

Waylon nodded. "Yep! Heading east, of course, and eventually in Texas we'll be getting off it. But for now, we're traveling along the mother road of America."

Ryan's eyes lit up. "Cool!" he exclaimed. He rolled down the window, oblivious to the wind and desert heat and leaned out as far as his seatbelt would allow. His black hair whipped around his face. Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Mmmm, it even smells like Route 66!" He grinned and pulled his head back in. "Hey, Waylon, is this really Route 66? You're not just saying that, are you?"

Waylon gestured to a tiny white speck up ahead. "There's a route marker. Tell you what, I'll pull over. You can get out and see for yourself."

Ryan could barely contain his excitement. He wrestled with his seatbelt and rolled down the window again. Thrusting his head and shoulders out as far as he could, he tilted his head back and gave a hooting call of delight into the rushing wind. He squinted at the rapidly approaching sign, wriggling with excitement as he felt the car slowing.

Waylon had barely come to a stop before Ryan scrabbled to release his seatbelt, and leapt out. He ran up to the sign, jumped up and gave it a victory slap with his fingertips. "How long have we been on Route 66?" he asked, half-sprinting to the Durango, then back to the sign.

His father leaned on the car, arms folded lightly across his chest. "Oh, about a hundred miles now." He gestured to the sign. "Go stand over there, Ryan. Let me get your picture."

Ryan skipped and quickly swung himself into position next to the road marker. "Is there enough light?"

Waylon nodded. "The sun's from the west. It'll look great, that sort of golden glow…" He raised his smartphone, and took several shots, then walked to Ryan and handed him the camera. "Take a look," he offered. "What do you think?"

Ryan swiped through several frames, and beamed. "They look great!" He paused, expression growing serious for just a minute. He looked into his father's brown eyes, suddenly feeling shy. "Hey… dad… do you mind standing there? I can get a picture of you, too."

He watched his father's face flicker from surprised to happy, then finally something he couldn't even recognize. Whatever it was though, it was a good thing. He took a spot next to the sign, and wrapped an arm around the post.

"Just like that," Ryan approved. "Say cheese."

His father obligingly replied; the smile on his face was truly genuine. Ryan snapped a few shots, then beamed. "Here," he said, handing the smartphone back to Waylon. Ryan blushed suddenly, and looked at his feet. He kicked a rock, and glanced up shyly as they made their way back to the Durango.

"Hey Waylon?"

"Yes, Ryan?"

Ryan couldn't meet his father's gaze, but he tried nonetheless. "Thanks. No, really. I mean it. Thank you."

Waylon reached out a hand, and Ryan didn't shy away. He grasped his father's wrist firmly, and felt Waylon's fingers wrap around his own. "It was my pleasure, Ryan. It's good to see you happy."

Happy, yeah, Ryan thought as Waylon put the car in gear and picked up speed. It was good, wasn't it. He smiled, watching the sun set in the rearview mirror. Without a word, he and his father cut their path along the fabled mainstreet of America, siding into the twilight of the east.