16/08/2025
I've always told my clients that control is a comforting illusion. It keeps us calm and moving forward. The problem is, illusions shatter fast, and usually when you're least prepared.
That evening, I thought I had control. Gold and burnt orange spilt across the Midwestern sky, the kind of light that felt like it was trying too hard to be remembered. My Volvo, a dependable companion for over a decade, purred along Route 16 like it knew the way without me. The air through the half-open window was dry and warm, with just enough breeze to keep me from dozing off.
Then the engine coughed.
At first, I ignored it; cars hiccup sometimes, especially when they've got 187,000 miles under their belt. But the cough came again, sharper, and then a third time, harder, like a body trying to clear its lungs. The dashboard lit up with warning lights, each one a little red or orange announcement of doom.
I guided the Volvo onto the gravel shoulder, hazards blinking. The car gave one last shudder, as if in protest, before going silent.
The quiet was absolute. Out here, there was no faint thrum of city traffic, no background chatter of life. Just the wind in the tall grass and, now and then, the whisper of a passing vehicle, none of which slowed down. I pulled out my phone. No bars. My old Garmin, suction-cupped to the dash and forever threatening to fall off, showed my position as a lonely blue dot adrift in pale nothingness. S**t. That can’t be good.
I leaned back in the seat and let out a breath. There was no real plan for this trip. A vague idea of “heading west” and “taking some time,” platitudes I’d offered friends when they asked. The truth was less poetic. I was drifting, and the open road seemed like the least confrontational place to do it. Cities felt too crowded, too full of questions I didn’t want to answer. Home was worse, too many familiar walls that remembered more than I cared to. Out here, there were no expectations, no one keeping score. Just mile markers ticking past and the steady hum of the engine, each one giving me a little more distance from whatever it was I wasn’t ready to face.
And for a moment, even being stranded out here felt easier than going back.
The air cooled quickly as the sun dipped lower, and the long shadows stretched across the road like they were reaching for me. The smell of dry earth mixed with the faint tang of engine oil. I stepped out, leaning against the door, trying to decide whether to start walking or keep waiting for the kindness of strangers. My shoes crunched on the gravel, each step loud in the emptiness.
Headlights appeared in my rearview, growing until a weathered Ford pickup slowed and stopped behind me. Its paint had faded to a kind of denim blue, and the front grill was pitted with bits of rust. The driver’s door creaked open, and a tall man stepped out, moving with the ease of someone who’d spent his life in work boots.
“You need some help?” he called, voice low but carrying.
I stepped out fully, hands in my pockets. “I believe I do.”
He was maybe mid-forties, lean but solid, wearing jeans rubbed pale at the knees, a flannel shirt, and a battered leather jacket that looked like it had been broken in over a hundred different winters. Although he looked about mid-forties, he could have been older or younger; it was hard to tell. His eyes took me in quickly, not suspicious exactly, but measuring, like a carpenter figuring the right length before making a cut.
“Daniel Grey,” he said, offering a hand. His grip was firm, practical. “Got a garage in town. Can tow you in, if you’re not set on camping out here tonight.”
“Hunter Shaw,” I replied. “And no, not a great fan of the old camping.”
A brief grin flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think so. Let’s get you hooked up.”
We walked toward his truck, boots and shoes grinding on the gravel. A hawk cried somewhere off in the distance, though I couldn’t see it against the dimming sky. As we neared the back of his pickup, I caught the faint smell of motor oil and something warmer, coffee maybe, coming from the cab. He moved with a quiet efficiency, lowering the tow rig, looping thick chains under my Volvo’s frame. His hands were quick and sure, but he didn’t rush.
“You headed far?” he asked without looking up.
“West,” I said. “Just… west.”
“That’s not much of a plan.”
“Nope. It sure isn’t.”
He gave a small nod, as if that answer made perfect sense to him. The chains clinked as he tightened them, and the wind shifted, carrying the scent of dry hay from somewhere nearby. The last streaks of orange drained from the sky, leaving the road ahead in shadow.
“Alright then,” he said, dusting off his hands. “Let’s get you moving.”
I slid into the passenger seat of his truck. The vinyl was cracked but well-kept, while the dashboard was littered with crumpled candy wrappers and empty coffee cups… a quiet record of long hours on the road. Daniel turned the key, and the engine growled to life, the truck lurching forward as it hauled my silent Volvo into the darkening night.
For the first time that evening, I felt something close to relief, though there was something else braided into it, a weight I couldn’t name, and wasn't sure I wanted to. Maybe it was the comfort of movement, maybe the presence of another human being, or maybe it was just the sense that whatever came next was already set in motion.
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