You might think that having a kid would have kept me in one place, or at least slowed me down, but even that failed to root me. Every time I pulled up stakes, I told my son that no matter where we were, we were at home as long as we were together. For a long time, that was true, but then, well, it wasn’t.

So, here I am, circling back to my starting point in a direct run down Interstate 90, New Bedford–bound.

* * *

“I’d like a shower.”

“And I’d like to keep on schedule. You’ve already slowed me down with twice as many pee breaks as I take.”

“You pee in a bottle.”

Artie pulls off his greasy Tractor Supply cap and runs his fingers through his stringy hair, resettles the cap, and drags a long breath. “Five minutes, or I swear to God I’ll leave without you.”

Artie has said this before. I smile and grab my duffel bag, which nestles at my feet. It contains everything I need and nothing that I don’t. That bag and I have a longer relationship than most married couples. I pull a couple of dollars out of my back pocket and drop them on the check. “Give me seven and I’ll meet you at the truck. Go buy yourself a pack of gum.”

“Justine. I mean it. I come in late with this load and I’m fucked.”

“Then don’t hold me up talking to me.” I shoulder my duffel and stride off to the showers.

Once Artie figured out that I meant it, that I was paying him three hundred bucks to let me ride east with him, and that didn’t include any physical stuff, he’d turned sullen. It’s funny how the barroom personality can be so different from that of the real person. Mr. How’s My Girl quickly became Mr. Cranky. Tough. I’m not taking this ride for the company. I keep Mack between us, and get out of the cab while Artie catches a few hours’ sleep—walking Mack around quiet parking lots, sitting at empty picnic tables and sipping cold coffee—then unroll my sleeping bag and crawl into Artie’s man-smelly bunk to catch my own z’s. Artie doesn’t want Mack in his bed, but that’s okay. The dog curls up on my seat, his little ears twisted in my direction, so I know he’s not really sleeping. On guard. Shelties, miniature collies, are guard dogs by breeding. His instincts are to watch the hills for wolves. Artie is on notice every time Mack stares at him with his eagle eyes.

* * *

There are three shower stalls. One is broken, and the other two are in use. I should forget about it. I wash my face and brush my teeth. Whoever those two women are, they are flipping taking a long time. I floss. I wait. I know that Artie is getting pissed. Finally, the shower turns off. Now I have to wait for Miss America to dry off and get dressed. “People waiting out here!” I shove my washcloth and toothbrush back into my bag.