I — 40 — AMARILLO — TX — → — ALBUQUERQUE — NM

The old man at Vega was maybe seventy, gray stubble, working the register like he'd been there since the place opened. I was grabbing coffee and a sandwich around eight in the morning, and he just started talking while he rang me up—said his grandson shipped out three months ago, somewhere east of Kyiv, and they haven't heard much. Just emails that say he's okay. The man's hands weren't steady when he counted my change. He didn't ask if I cared. He just needed to tell someone, and I was there, a stranger passing through on I-40, so I listened. I told him my nephew was in the Army, and that seemed to matter to him. He nodded and handed me my receipt. I left a ten-dollar tip on the counter. Drove the rest of the way to Albuquerque thinking about that kid in the snow somewhere, and about the old man alone in that truck stop, waiting for emails. The load went in on time. There's another run tomorrow. The road doesn't stop for any of it.