I made my way in heavy traffic over to the 204, and from there, south to U.S. 17. I stayed on 17, crossing the Ogeechee River at Kings Bridge, and continuing on until I came to Richmond Hill, where I jumped onto I-95.

The trees flanking the interstate presented a tall and forbiddingly dark wall on either side of the highway corridor that seemed to exclude the rest of the world. It began to rain again, a light floating rain, little more than a dreary mist, that was just enough to cause me to hit the intermittent wipers now and then but not enough to keep them on. I watched closely for deer and wild hogs—the sides of the interstate were littered with their dead carcasses. And at interstate speed, a collision with either one could total a car.

The old Chevy rode and handled like a dream. When this is all over, I think I’ll take a long road trip—maybe out west and down into Mexico. It’s just the right time of year for that, I told myself. After a while I saw a sign that announced in brightly reflective letters:

EXIT 67
ONE MILE
FOOD—FUEL

I lifted my foot from the accelerator and slowed to make the turn. A tractor-trailer in front of me did the same. I held back to stay out of the spume thrown up by his tires and coasted off the ramp to the yield sign below. The truck turned to the right, and after giving him a few seconds to move ahead, I did the same.

Surprisingly, it was almost ten miles to Sally’s Truck Stop. The place was situated in a huge clearing on the side of the road and gave the appearance of having grown piecemeal over the decades of its existence. The fuel pumps were located to the left side of the main store. It was a large operation, able to refuel a dozen trucks at a time. Behind the fueling area was a massive garage and workshop complex. The main building held the store and a restaurant.

To the right rear was the overnight parking. The parking lot was graveled rather than paved, and the farther I proceeded to the rear, the less good the lighting until I arrived at the very back of the lot, which was in utter darkness. Only a few trucks, their diesel engines idling to keep the heaters on, were parked back here.

I found a place, where the darkness was deepest, at the far corner of the lot, backed in, and turned off the engine. Picking up the CB from the passenger seat, I turned on the volume, dialed up the appropriate channel, and adjusted the squelch until the hissing went quiet. Now the waiting began.