I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen. When daycare costs became too much, I buckled my toddler, Micah, into the rig and brought him on the road. He’s two now—sharp, fearless, and already knows how to work a CB radio. Our life is simple: matching neon jackets, peanut butter crackers, and ‘80s songs off-key. But outside Amarillo, things shifted. While checking the trailer, Micah asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?” “Who?”
I asked. “The man who gave me the paper,” he said. “He was here yesterday.” We’d been alone. Always were.That night, I found a folded note in the glove box—Micah’s name on the front. Inside was a sketch of us in the cab, and the words: “Keep going. He’s proud of you.” A few days later, near Flagstaff, an older man directed me to a diner. The woman inside, Dottie, said she’d seen a tall man talking to someone in my truck.
