Pete was nearing Mobile. He followed the highway until it led him through the large underground tunnel, plunging beneath the mighty Mobile River. It was the strangest structure he’d ever seen, this hole in the ground. It made him nervous to be beneath the water rushing above him. It seemed unnatural. He glanced behind him. In the rear window, he could see his dogs staring at the cars behind him, tails tucked.

He missed her. He’d never thought about how much he would miss her until this moment. He replayed his entire childhood while rolling beneath this tunnel. They had spent nearly every day of their lives together. Ruth was always there, in every memory and every scene in his life.

The city of Mobile was paved with cobbled streets and lined with majestic and colorful homes that looked like royal places. Iron balconies, hanging ferns, ornate trim work, and tall streetlights. It was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. He felt a thrill at being so far from home. But he couldn’t enjoy it. Not without her.

He drove through the city, taking it all in, trying to forget the heaviness that gnawed at him. Paul had been the only father he’d ever known. He had guided the family through an uncertain world and ushered them through hell. Who would guide Pete now? Who would teach him about life, and people, and dogs, and how to be a good man?

Stringbean snored in the seat beside him. He rested a hand on her. She moaned when he did.

Once he made it through the city, he followed a new stretch of highway the prisoners were still working on. Men wearing blue denim and swinging hammers and pickaxes stood in the ditches. They were guarded by men on horses bearing shotguns. One prisoner waved at Pete when he crawled past them. Pete waved back to him. The man had red hair and no teeth.

Pete pulled over to glance at the map in his lap. His route was outlined with red pencil. He turned the paper sideways. Stringbean made water beneath a large oak tree in a cotton field. Pete walked into the field and observed the acres of white. He breathed in the smell of it. It was the smell of dirt and foliage and summer air.

He drove again. He rolled down empty dirt paths and passed more men in denim swinging pickaxes. He passed more stretches of new highway. He passed hayfields lit orange in the dusk, a county work camp lined with fences of barbed wire, and bunkhouses with bars on the windows.

He almost missed his turn. It was a nondescript dirt road in the middle of the forest.

He rolled into the driveway and was greeted by a team of Labradors who followed his old vehicle down a long path. Then he saw it.