The truck rumbles along the strip of sun-bleached asphalt.
Yawning desert plains ride sidesaddle to the tar-stained highway.
The relentless, searing sky seems ready to boil the sand below into a sea of glass.
The driver wipes his reddened brow, smearing grease and sweat onto a ketchup-stained napkin.
He claws with annoyance at his long, grey beard. An unneeded natural neckwarmer.
He rolls up the window, rubbing eyes and coughing, as the road blasts him with a sand-filled gust.
He recoils in pain, scalding himself on a Red Bull can, left too long in the sunlight.
He glances down, reassuring himself that the air conditioner is on. Full blast.
He has grown to hate this road.
At first, the road gave a sense of refreshing isolation.
A break from stressful maneuverings on the freeway, the honkings of impatient lawyers.
A rare chance to own the road, to have the respect he felt he always deserved.
Now he dreads every journey down the ever-empty road.
It became malevolent with the increasing heat.
It burned away all the vegetation, leaving behind a landscape of maddening monotony.
But, worst of all, the road grew longer.
Each trip down that stretch of desert road, it took more gas to fill the tank.
He tried desperately to find a more sane explanation.
The heat is just making the gasoline evaporate faster.
He avoids looking at the dashboard, staring instead into the featureless path ahead.
He turns on the radio, hoping to find a single precious moment of distraction.
All he finds is static. Even the radio signals have abandoned this road.
His eyelids grow heavy.
He has never seen anyone else travel down this road.
He mentioned it to trucker friends, only to be met with shrugs. They had never heard of it.
He shakes himself, drumming the wheel with desperate, false zeal. Humming aimless nothings.
Stay Focused. Don’t look at the gauge. You’ll make it. You always have.
He can’t give up. Money is tight, and the pay is too good. So, he keeps driving.
But, the monotony of the road, the calming vibration of the truck, and the heat- all prove too much.
His eyes flutter shut.
He starts violently awake. He looks up. The road sits plainly ahead. The sun perches low in the sky.
He thanks God that he didn’t steer the truck into the desert, trapping himself in the shifting sands.
He checks his watch, making sure he could still make up for lost time. I can still make it if I just--
The creeping realization takes him. The truck is silent. He turns the key. The silence grows.
He finally looks down to the dashboard. The needle sits solemnly, ignorant of its role as doomsayer.
E
The single letter shatters his hope. The shape a fitting pitchfork to slay his last shred of resolve.
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