Matt

It wasn't okay.

The final twist didn't feel like a twist at first.

It felt like relief.

After what felt like hours of driving in circles, the road suddenly widened and smoothed out.

A sign appeared, an actual, official metal BLM sign, not one of the faded wooden ones.

It had numbers on it that matched the main road on our map.

A few minutes later we saw pavement.

We went from dust to blacktop like crossing some invisible border.

Ryan pulled over just long enough to get out and kiss the hood of his truck.

Miguel laughed, the sound a little too high, a little too close to crying.

I just sat there, staring at the stripe of highway stretching out in both directions.

Cars passed.

Actual cars, with people inside who had no idea what was happening a few miles off the road.

The normal world felt thin and fragile, like paper over something much bigger.

We hit Green River again around five in the afternoon.

The sun was finally starting to drop.

The town looked exactly the same as it had when we'd left.

There was one difference.

The old man from the gas station was sitting on the bench outside, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands.

He watched us pull in with an expression that I can only describe as sad resignation.