Trucker Storyteller

It looked older, probably from the late 80s, early 90s, and not in a nostalgic way.

The paint was faded, almost to grey, with these long white streaks trailing down the doors, like something had dripped for years.

The tyres looked caked in dry mud, thick enough that it probably hadn't moved in a while.

No markings on the trailer, no company name, their numbers just blank.

I didn't love parking next to it, but there weren't many options.

The lot curved into the trees, and with the incline behind me batting in a few spots, overseen safer than trying to turn around, some were darkened, and even I cut the engine and let the silence settle.

The forest came alive almost immediately.

Frogs croaking deep in the brush, cicadas humming like static.

I rolled the window down just a notch for some air.

The night was warm but still.

A breeze would have been nice, but there wasn't one.

I didn't bother crawling into the sleeper.

Just tilted my seat back, pulled my hat low, and tried to catch a quick nap.

I wasn't planning to be there long, maybe thirty minutes, forty minutes, long enough to shake the highway out of my head.

I must have drifted off fast, because the next thing I remember was the sound of an engine, but not mine.

It started with this low, choking rumble like someone trying to fire up an old diesel that hadn't moved in years.

That coughing, sputtering sound, like it was fighting to stay alive.

I blinked awake and sat up to check the dash.

2.30 in the morning.

I turned my head slowly toward the other truck.