I steer my motorcycle off the highway, and for the first time in almost twenty miles, dense forest finally thins, giving way to civilization. Old farm houses, scattered far and wide. An abandoned slaughterhouse. Some kind of industrial park.

Gradually, and then suddenly, more houses begin to appear. Until there are more houses than trees. Businesses. A single floor motel—the only one for miles. The elementary school where I attended one year, and one year only. A church.

This town is built like a target; the bridge, its bullseye. And what constitutes downtown—Main Street—sits parallel to that bridge in near-perpetual shade.

Driving past the school, my eyes catch on the playground just beyond—the mid-day sun glinting sharply off the metal slide—and a hard lump forms in my throat.

I shouldn’t be here.

When I left Philly back in June, I didn’t have any set destination in mind. I just knew I needed to make a change. What kind of change, I had no idea. But taking to the open road seemed like a good place to start.

I thought it’d be enough.

Drifting my way through state lines. Bouncing from town to town. From one motel room to another...

Never settling for more than a couple nights.

Never giving my brain a chance to catch up. Just always pushing forward, never back.

I thought time and distance were supposed to heal all wounds. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go? Isn’t that what we’ve always been told?

Just give it time.

It will get better.

What a crock of shit.

A gas station appears on my right, and I slow my bike to a crawl, signaling to the car behind me that I’m turning. I figure I might as well fill up, grab some grub, and make a game plan. Up here, in Nowheresville, Pennsylvania, it’s impossible to say when I’ll find the next town. Could be ten miles. Could be fifty. Not worth wasting my reserve.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I tell myself a lot of things these days.

I ease my way behind an old Cadillac just as it’s pulling away from the pump.

It’s hot as balls today. The sun bears down heavily on the pavement, causing a sort of rippling haze to lift from the glittering asphalt, almost like smoke. Shoving my helmet off, I blink through squinting eyes as I try to adjust my vision around the slices of light bouncing off the surrounding metal.

No longer deafened by the roar of my bike, I can make out Led Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker” playing from the gas station’s speakers.