That probably didn’t come out exactly the way I intended. “Really? What exactly do you think I’m doing here?”

“No, wait, you’re right. That’s not what I meant, least not that way.” I stared straight ahead, the road unfolding into the distance, the clouds moving north with us. “I’m sorry, Laura. Look, it isn’t easy for me to ask for help. It never has been. Even before I was Rolling Stone.” I took a thoughtful breath. She deserved to know the truth. “This isn’t about me. There are other things going on, things that I can’t tell you about. But I have some information, some papers that have to get to Canada. That’s really what you’re doing here. Believe me, it’s not because I’m some kind of big shot.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Is that from some movie?”

“No. It’s true.”

“And if you told me what it is…”

We finished together, “I’d have to kill you.” I pointed at her iPad. “Go ahead, try it again.”

We drove north on I-79. Laura sent a message to “Mom,” informing her that she had decided not to stop at her aunt’s house in Pittsburgh. Minutes later “Mom” acknowledged it without an explanation beyond a warning to be cautious. “Weird,” was all Laura said, shaking her head.

We had been on the road for almost four hours. The drive from Washington to Buffalo could easily be made in seven hours, considerably less if you were pushing it, but I was careful to stay at the speed limit. I picked a random car and locked in a comfortable four car lengths behind it, reminding myself to go easy on the accelerator. We stayed off main roads when possible, driving through the farms and fields and small towns of the American countryside. I’d driven across the country several times through college, on road trips and new assignments; I’d traveled through the mountains in the East, across the endless prairies of the Midwest, and through the desert and stunning beauty of the West, and always with excitement and anticipation. As corny as it sounds, I’d always felt connected to it in some deep and inexplicable way, enjoying a profound sense of pride that this was my country. All of it. From the traffic jams of Manhattan to the bait shops of Louisiana, a special bond held us all together. No matter where in the country I traveled, whoever I’d met along the way, it was all home. And I was the product of it all.

“What are you thinking?” Laura asked.

I sighed. “Nothing really. You know.”

“You gonna miss it?”

A gust of sadness hit me. “I’ve been missing it for a long time.”

I glanced at the clock. It was after five o’clock. We were in decent shape, I figured. I still had no reason to believe that anyone other than two seriously angry Homeland Security agents was searching for me, and nothing I had seen from those two indicated they would be able to find me. The last time I’d seen them they were doing the pain dance on the bathroom floor, so I was fairly confident they would be taking the next few days off. Even if Homeland Security was interested, they didn’t have the slightest idea where I was heading.