It's 0-dark-thirty—one of those predawn pockets of time that journalists and farmhands know by heart. The world outside the garage is a hush of star-spangled black, but inside I can feel the morning's pulse beginning to run. My right knee bounces like a piston, 120 beats per minute, give or take the stutter of nerves. Pure anticipation, cut with a shot of anxiety.

At seven o'clock sharp the sun will slip its head above the pines, and Josie and I—road-threadbare, rattling, and righteous—will nose down the driveway and point ourselves toward the open patchwork of America's heartland. I tell myself we're ready. She's eighty percent roadworthy on a generous day. Maybe eighty-five if you don't count the squeal in second gear or the way the sliding-door latch only half commits without a good shove. I'm about the same. My back clenches if I twist wrong. My left shoulder protests the steering wheel's ten-and-two position. But people and machines leave home imperfect—always have, always will. It's the lopsided parts that keep us honest.

The double fluorescent lights swing from the rafters, casting tire-rim shadows that dance over Josie's brown-and-beige hide. Samos Beige bleeds into Assuan Brown midway down her flanks like shoreline meeting sand. Those colors used to be considered stylish; now they're just honest, an earth-tone confession on four wheels. I run my fingers over the paint. It's warm, almost alive. She carries road dust from three states and a spare fuel pump, and I decide right then not to wash her. We start the next chapter wearing the scars of the last.

Deep inside, something raw rattles about. Brokenness is the polite word. A spiderweb of hairline fractures that never fully knit. They seldom incapacitate me, but they are constant—a dull twinge in the sternum, a pinch behind the eyes. Grief has weight. Regret has texture. They drift behind the rib cage until a random morning brings them floating to the surface, waving like red flags from childhood forts. Somewhere out there—maybe in a coffee shop in Kansas, maybe on a porch swing in Tennessee—there's a story I haven't heard, a story that will seep into those cracks and settle them. I believe that the way farmers believe in rain. Hope isn't logic; it's lineage.

Somewhere out there is a "cure." Somewhere out there, there is a story—or a collection of stories—that will seep into my brokenness and heal. At least that is my hope…

The Question of Direction

The road sprawls out of South Carolina like a question with no tidy answer marks at the end. I lift a spiral-bound paper atlas—the old Rand McNally, creased and dogeared like a well-worn hymnal—and flip it open. No red pen lines, no circles around must-see towns. Intuition will steer this rig. That means pauses at crossroads, window rolled down, letting the wind point whichever direction feels stronger. I've set out this way before, and it terrifies me every time. Yet nothing teaches humility like surrendering the illusion of control.

Still—let's be honest—letting go is part theater. I've packed spare fan belts, two five-gallon containers of 5w-40 weight full synthetic oil, a Jerry can full of gas, a nest of fuses, and a box of assorted metric bolts and every tool except an impact wrench that I used to bring her engine back to life because the road respects a traveler who honors the gods of preparedness. Intuition can steer, but prudence rides shotgun.

Josie coughs once when the starter catches, then settles into that unmistakable sewing-machine clatter. Air-cooled, 67 horses on a cool morning, maybe 63 once the thermometer climbs. She idles like a purring cat. No need for last minute fiddling; there's danger in chasing perfection minutes before departure. A man can strip threads, and Josie can sense last-minute nerves.

I dial back the inner jitters, slide into the driver's seat, and let my hands rest on the wheel. Vinyl cold. Smells faintly of gas and oil from a leak two owners back. My pulse syncs to the engine's soft staccato. Somewhere on the periphery of thought I wonder if the restlessness that woke me will still feel noble when we're two hundred miles from home and the temperature floats toward the danger zone. Maye so. Probably not. The duality is the ticket price.

Somewhere on the periphery of thought I wonder if the restlessness that woke me will still feel noble when we're two hundred miles from home and the engine temperature floats toward the danger zone.

The Sponsor in the Shadows

An ace up the sleeve helps. Mine is called GoWesty, an outfit out in Los Osos, California, that worships at the altar of Volkswagen vans. They sell pop-top canvases, turnkey engines and stainless-steel mufflers, and they've agreed to ride along in spirit. Unlimited tech support, wholesale parts, overnight shipping to any town with a ZIP code. A corporate sponsor, sure—but it feels more like an uncle with a barnful of spares. I hope I don't need to dial that lifeline. Hope, however, is not a strategy; it's an insurance policy called prudence.

Moment on the Cusp

Five-thirty now. Birds still hush. Coffee steams in a sturdy Home Depot mug. There is a sweetness in these countdown minutes: the last time the house lights will glow on familiar walls, the last easy reach for a clean shirt, the last surety of Wi-Fi. After this, routine dissolves into roadside improvisation.

A note on the kitchen counter tells Brenda I love her. Married thirty-five years, she knows the look I get when wanderlust gnaws. She's never tried to cage it. She just reminds me to call at day's end and to "be home before Christmas." I've tossed an Apple Air Tag into the glove box so Brenda can ostensibly track my progress; it's really there in case I get caught up in an "abandon hope all ye who enter here" situation without cell service.

We stand on the porch an hour before sunrise, arms around each other, silent. Shared understanding drifts between breaths: leaving is part of returning; returning is part of leaving again.

Rolling

Seven a.m. sharp the garage door lifts, clattering like metal stage curtains. Josie nosies into dawn's first amber and flicks her headlights at the road. I tap the horn—two quick notes for luck—and ease onto the asphalt.

The morning air smells of cut grass and longing. Shadows stretch long, as though the world itself is yawning. At the first stop sign I rest my hand on the shifter, thumb brushing the knob worn smooth by four decades of palms. Clutch in, first gear engages with a muted clunk, and we move. A mile in and my breath finally eases. The knee calms; the heart does not.

Twenty miles north, suburbs begin to bleed into the lowcountry. Mailboxes grow sparser; sky grows taller. I fall into conversation with the windshield—little verbal lists of what we've remembered, what we've inevitably forgotten. After the second jittery monologue I laugh at myself. Although my radio is an aftermarket, Bluetooth-enabled, modern-day technological wonder, it remains mute. I can't hear Josie whisper to me if the trucks, cowboys, and heartbreak of contemporary country are blaring from the speakers.

Sometimes the white noise of rubber on asphalt and the steady piston-driven thrum of the engine are the best co-pilot.

Imperfections in Concert

The initial plan is to head north toward Ashville. It's in ruins, just barely surviving the ruthless effects of a 100-year flood. Help has mustered from around the country to come to the aid of its citizens and put boots on the ground to help with clean up and restoration. It'll be fertile ground, I figure, for finding generous souls who've given up their daily routines to help out "neighbors" in need. Just the types my Hope & Generosity Tour are seeking.

But I never get within 100 miles of the place. My GPS is squawking at me about closed and impassable roads, especially the marginal backroads that are the hallmark of this trip. I ignore the GPS imploring me to take an alternate route. It's my first boneheaded mistake. Not only do the roads prove impassable, but law enforcement has thrown up a perimeter around the surrounding area, letting in only certified residents and work crews. Strike one and it's barely the first inning. Ohio now becomes my target. The annual Bob Evans Farm Festival is about to take place. Nothing a good ol' fashioned county fair type event. I envision 4-H clubs showing off prize sows and bulls. Plenty of people volunteering their time and efforts. Again, a target-rich environment for me.

But now I must beg Josie to run outside her comfort zone: the Interstate is the only way through now, up and over the Appalachian Mountains. I pull into a rest stop and argue with myself. Even the relatively mild elevation gains and inclines up the mountains are going to test Josie. This time, however, there will be no guess work on my part. When I stitched her back together, I augmented her instrument panel with a tach, and oil and cylinder head temperature gauges. I'll see disaster coming miles away…

I swing onto the Interstate and Josie's imperfections announce themselves in polite order: that noisy second-gear, the squeal at 45 mph, the death-rattle in the rear suspension whenever we hit a pothole. Imperfections—they're the chorus of travel. Like a band, they tune differently mile to mile. Eventually the ear adjusts and picks melody out of the clatter.

My own flaws settle in too. Lower back throbs after the first hour. I try shifting on the seat, rolling my shoulders, flexing white knuckles from gripping the wheel too tight. Nothing cures it fully, but the aches root me in the moment—a physical bookmark reminding me that aging isn't a malfunction; it's evidence of passage.

Brokenness on Board

As the soulless miles of the Interstate tick by, I keep circling back to the hollow inside. Everyone hauls some version of it—mine just makes more noise on quiet mornings. It began when the news business I loved burned itself down in a blaze of mergers, talking heads and clickbait. It deepened the day cancer carved its initials into my prostate. It hardened into callus after burying my second-born. These fissures never shut completely. They just scab and reopen according to mysterious barometric shifts of memory.

The road, though, has a curious salve. It applies distraction and distance in equal measure. Out here, grief has to share airtime with gear whine, with the shimmer of heat above blacktop, with the scent of diesel from a passing grain truck. It doesn't disappear; it just slips into the ensemble like a minor VI chord, essential to the song.

Intuition's Compass

Up the first steep grade, I downshift and move all the way to the right lane. Taking my cues from the semis lined up there before me, I trip my emergency flashers, a cautionary warning that an ancient 67-horsepower vehicle has joined the impromptu caravan. I'm in third gear but Josie's cylinder head temp is riding the red line. I try to throttle back, but then oil temp begins to climb to uncomfortable heights. I'm caught in a conundrum. Higher rpms spin the fan faster and move more cooling air over the oil cooler, yet the higher rpms are exactly what drives up the cylinder head temps. It's a balancing act on a razor's edge. Suddenly Josie revolts. Cylinder head temp hits 450 degrees, the melt down zone. I panic, release the throttle and hold my breath as the temp holds for a few seconds and then subsides, but now I'm only traveling 30 mph and I can feel the ire of the truck drivers behind me.

More out of anxiety than desperation, I dive onto a rare exit to rethink my life's choices and search for a place to cool Josie down. I downshift, signal right, and confess to the old girl that I'm not running the show.

A deer fence appears, and beyond it, a nameless churchyard—white clapboards, sun-bleached, door propped open. Sunday service is likely hours away, but I pull in anyway. Gravel tinks against the wheel wells. I kill the engine, let the tick-tick-tick of cooling fins fill the hush.

Inside, the pews smell like cedar and old hymnals. Dust motes float in slanted light. On the pulpit rests a handwritten sign: Pot-Luck Fundraiser Saturday – All Welcome. No names, no RSVP. Just an open invitation. I take a photo, though I have no plan for it. Sometimes a picture just proof to myself that the moment happened.

Back outside, I whisper a quick thanks to whichever unseen caretaker left the door ajar. Then I write my own small note on a scrap of paper—Passing through. Grateful for the quiet. I tuck it under a stone by the steps and roll on, feeling less stranger, more like a thread in the fabric.

First Mechanical Whisper

Two hundred miles in a new sound joins the chorus: a faint chirp with each revolution of the fan belt. I crack the window, listen. Chirp fades above 3,000 rpm, returns at idle. I breathe slow. Belt glaze, maybe. Nothing catastrophic. The GoWesty hotline number sits taped to the dash, but I got this and remind myself to check it later at a fuel stop.

Fuel Stop No. 1

First truck stop, Pump 3. 87-octane smells the same in every state. I pop the engine hatch, glove up, and press a fingertip to the alternator belt—deflection within spec but glossy. A smear of bar soap rubbed on the rib quiets the squeal. It's shade-tree mechanics 101. Not a cure, just an Easter seal patch until a better fix appears.

Inside the station a teenage clerk sells me coffee that tastes like burnt chicory. He nods at the van. "Cool, man. That thing make it cross-country?" he asks. I grin. "That thing will outlive us both." It might be bravado; might be prophecy.

The Psychogeography of Anonymity

Highways shift the psyche. By midafternoon the familiar boundaries of home melt. You notice the way clouds flatten into anvils over the horizon. Each county brings a new horizon. I think about stories I've yet to hear—grandmas quilting for missionaries, farmers fixing leaky roofs on volunteer fire stations, kids learning to spell their names under fluorescent lights that flicker just a hair off rhythm. Stories are everywhere. They cling to telephone poles and diner counters. You only need to slow down enough for them to leap aboard.

First Night

The sun folds itself behind pine silhouettes and cloud porn. I pull onto a logging road, bounce down two hundred yards, and park under longleaf pines. Crickets tune up. Heat presses against the van walls like a sleeping dog. I crack the window vents, roll out the mattress, and lie back listening to the whisper of bugs and the periodic ping of cooling metal.

Anxiety visited early, but now it thins, replaced by the hum of anticipation's quieter cousin: curiosity. I picture tomorrow's mapless canvas, small towns strung like beads, each one waiting with a story to barter. Somewhere, the crack inside me will align with a tale that fits the shape of the hollow.

Midnight Interlude

At 1:13 a.m., coyotes yip in the distance. Josie creaks as the temperature drops. I switch on a battery lantern and scribble in a small leatherbound notebook: chirping belt, churchyard door, teenager at pump. They're small details now. Later they may be anchors for paragraphs, maybe for nothing at all. A writer learns not to judge too early.

Dawn No. 2—Lessons in Progress

The second morning begins less ceremonious. Coffee reheated on a single-burner camp stove tastes like memory more than flavor. I check the oil—only slightly down; she's holding her own. Belt still chirps but softer. The road calls.

As I drive, the previous day distills into quiet lessons:

• Imperfection is the cost of admission. A loose seat bolt, a stiff knee, a hairline fracture in the heart—they come along. You can tighten, stretch, mend, but never erase. Accept, adjust, drive on.
  
  
• Hope requires friction. Without the grit of unknown miles, hope is theory. With friction, it becomes muscle.
  
  
• Kindness arrives unannounced. A church left unlocked, a grin at the gas station. Keep your palms open; something will land.
  
  
• Stories prefer silence. Turn off the active brain. Trust the mantra of rubber on asphalt. That's when the narrative seeps in from the margins.
  
  

Day's Horizon

Ahead lies Tennessee, Kentucky, and then Ohio; a dozen river crossings; a hundred café counters; untold mechanical flirtations with disaster. Each mile is a wager that the engine will hold and that the heart will learn something new.

I shift into fourth. Josie moans—content or resigned, who can say?—and the speedometer settles at fifty-five. Wind whistles through the vent window like someone practicing harmonica scales. I breathe in the road and exhale worry. Somewhere beyond the next bend, a stranger waits with a story that matches my cracks like a key fits a lock.

The unknown is no longer a threat; it is the invitation. And we—Josie creaking, me mending—accept.

There's a certain romance to traveling the back roads in a forty-two-year-old VW Vanagon camper named Josie. She's no sleek modern marvel, but she has something better: character. Josie is a boxy, unhurried beast, painted a faded shade of Assuan Brown and Samos Beige that once gleamed in the sun, now softened to suede by decades of weather. Her engine purrs with the steady rhythm of an old friend. It sputters and coughs now and then, a raspy uncle clearing his throat to remind you that time waits for no machine. Yet it is in those sputters and coughs, in the unpredictable roadside hallelujahs and muttered curses, that the true spirit of the journey shows its teeth.

Josie is more than a vehicle; she is a companion, a mule, an ark of half-forgotten dreams bumping along the two-lane blacktop. When she eases into a filling-station bay or noses under the shade of an ancient cottonwood, people look up. First they stare, puzzled by her square lines and two-tone coat. Then they smile—not at me, mind you, but at her, the way travelers once tipped hats to stagecoach horses after a hard pull. She carries more than backpacks and canned beans: she carries stories, rust-flecked histories, and the grease-shadowed fingerprints of every hand that ever opened her engine hatch. She carries rumor. And when she idles at the curb of a courthouse square, she does so with a traveler's dignity, like an elder who's seen the breadth of things and still finds something new to love in the face of each town.

Strangers smile—not at me, mind you, but at her, the way travelers once tipped hats to stagecoach horses after a hard pull.

1

Breakdowns are inevitable. You don't wander middle America in a forty-year-old van without expecting to picnic beside catastrophe. One miserably rainy I was lost and looking for the supposed ghost town of Alone, Kentucky the alternator light winked on like an accusation. I paid it little attention; I was closing in on my prey. I'd discovered the Alone cemetery; the town had to be nearby. Natch, nothing doing. I'd driven around and up and down the same series of backroad rises a dozen times looking for some hidden dirt road. My gas gauge read empty, which in Josie-speak meant she had just about six gallons left in the tank. I queued up the GPS and looked for the closest Walmart to gas up. My route directed me to Glasgow, and I turned her toward the target destination.

Once in the parking lot, I headed for a fringe parking spot to pull into and catch a quick nap. I could fuel up in the morning and shut her engine down. Waking from the quick nap, I decided to relocate, noise from the nearby road was just enough to be annoying instead of soothing. I turned the key and… nothing. Not a chirp, not a stunted, growling stutter. Nothing.

My mind instantly raced to the winking alternator light. She had tried to warn me; I ignored her. Then a sudden scary thought seeped over me: if I had found that ghost town, I'd now be stranded in it, with no cell service. I was drawing heavily on my karmic bank account.

Frustration clawed up my throat, but there was nothing to do except unroll the bedding, brew coffee on the butane stove, and watch thunderheads muscle the horizon. Birds jostled on the power line, curious about the intruder. I could almost hear Josie snicker: Slow down, kid. The view's better when the wheels quit spinning.

2

Romance lives in the imperfections. Josie's rear suspension squeaks and moans down dirt roads; her heater smells faintly of shoe rubber and bygone winters in who-knows-where. The dash rattles a Morse code no mechanic can silence. But those quirks are teachers. They make me listen. They make me lighten my foot, lean forward when climbing a hill, and pat the dashboard when we crest and the engine sighs relief. She has taught me patience the way a creek teaches stone—by persistent abrasion.

Speed limits mean little to a 67-horsepower air-cooled engine lugging half a studio apartment. Seventy-five on the interstate? Barely, but not likely. Fifty-five on a county road feels downright racy. Yet that slowness is invitation, not punishment. It leaves enough margin to read the hand-lettered signs—HOME-MADE FRY PIES 4 SALE or REPTILE ZOO NEXT EXIT—and enough time to debate whether a fry pie or a corn snake is more urgent. Slowness means you can smell alfalfa curing in a windrow, hear a cow bellow somewhere beyond the tree line, notice the color shift when the soil turns from clay to loam. A modern car rockets past those notes like a radio stuck on scan; Josie plays them on vinyl.

At night, camped at the end of a forest-service spur, rain patters her metal roof like fingers drumming a countertop, a lullaby no sound machine can counterfeit. Morning sun slants through the windshield, lighting dust motes that dance in warm currents. I make oatmeal on the stove, spoon it straight from the pot, and watch steam scroll across the cabin. Luxury can be measured in silence.

3

The engine's mid-range thrum becomes a metronome to thought. First come the trivial worries: Did I tighten that hose clamp? Did I have enough money in the savings account? After fifty miles, those fade, replaced by questions with longer tailwinds: Who am I when the phone loses signal? What parts of myself only breathe in the slow lane? Big existential shapes moving behind the clouds. Steinbeck, rolling west with Charley, found similar hauntings in the rattle of his custom camper. He wrote that travelers need time to "adjust internal sky to external landscape." Josie is my metered sky.

Somewhere just inside the Kansas state line, we idled at a railroad crossing while a mile-long freight train clattered north. The conductor, high in his cab, tooted two short salutes. For a second I imagined the van and the train trading war stories—old steel acknowledging older steel. We are temporary custodians of momentum; the machines know this better than we do.

Breakdowns, though—their gifts are grander. A burned-up voltage regulator in Glasgow, Kentucky, forced me to spend the night beside a trout stream lined with birch. No cell service, just moonlight and fish rising at dusk. The next morning, through sheer force of will, I determined that I could probably make it to the next town without too much damage to the battery, but the memory most luminous is the hush that dropped when the engine clicked cool. Without her failure, I would have barreled on toward the next postcard view, blind to this smaller grace.

Josie's square shoulders attract a certain folk: ex-hippies, mechanical nostalgists, little kids who've only known vehicles that communicate oil changes via dashboard emojis. They press hands to her flank like pilgrims touching a relic. At a grocery in Dawson Springs, a man in feed-store denim circled twice before asking what year she was. 1982, I told him. He tapped the body panel, nodded. "That's when vans were still honest." We stood neither strangers nor friends—just co-conspirators in the cult of honest steel.

When trouble comes, these people materialize. They hush no matter their politics, kneel beside the jack, offer a pry bar. Once, in Georgia, a preacher in shining shoes climbed under Josie in the drizzle to wire a dangling muffler bracket. "Hand me that coat hanger, brother," he said, as natural as reading scripture. Thirty minutes later he dusted off, grinned, and invited me to Wednesday supper at the fellowship hall. I left fuller than I'd felt in months: fried chicken, sweet tea, and ninety minutes of stories about the time the sanctuary ceiling collapsed under too much revival hallelujah.

These micro-communions are the gold seams soldering together the patchwork of long roads. I collect them like pressed flowers: names, situations, the peculiar tilt of a stranger's laughter. When Josie finally quits for good, I'll string those memories like beads and realize she never was just transport—she was lure.

There are days I imagine a newer rig: fuel-injected, climate-controlled, Bluetooth humming podcasts at 75 mph. Then I picture the conversations that would evaporate—no one approaches sleek efficiency on wheels. No one feels compelled to ask a Tesla driver how far he's come, where he's headed, whether he needs a socket set. Romance lives in the rescue. Romance lives in imperfection.

Besides, modern cars seal you off: triple-pane glass, whisper-quiet cabins, engines hidden beneath plastic covers. Josie, conversely, shouts her condition. She smells of gas when the float sticks, whines when the gearbox's second gear synchro begs lube, squeals belt if the alternator shaft runs hot. Riding with her is a duet: she sings minor 3rd harmony, I tap out the melody.

When the sun slips low, her windshield frames the landscape like cinema in slow motion. One evening in east Texas the whole horizon burned copper, and the van's flat front became a moving shadow theater—every tumbleweed rolling across tarmac exploded into silhouette. A sports car zipped by but saw none of it, its driver cocooned behind tinted glass, music bass to rattling. The romance of Josie is that she lets the world into the cabin: wind sneaks under door seals, sage scent fills lungs, road dust stripes the dashboard. She is permeability made automobile.

Nights bring routines: crack the window vents, drape a bandana over the reading light, draw her ancient, original equipment curtains. The mattress is thin, yet I sleep heavy. Somewhere past midnight the van settles—creaks, sighs, and cools. She is a critter then, curled up in her own fatigue. If coyotes yip, I imagine they're announcing the engine's heat ghost to their pack.

Morning is coffee gleaned from a cheap pour through contraption, eggs scrambled in bacon grease on the one-burner stove. Steam fogs the forward windows; I trace finger circles to peer out at whatever field, lot, or sandy arroyo we claimed. Nothing tastes as lonesome-sweet as breakfast in a parking pull-out while eighteen-wheelers huff by and dawn unwraps itself in slow pink sheets.

Romance requires risk. The risk is obvious: eighty-dollar tow fee turning into eighteen-hundred-dollar transmission job, or the risk of surrendering your neat itinerary to a cracked cylinder head. But there's a subtler peril: loving too deeply a contraption destined to strand you. I've learned to hold affection in my fingertips, never clenching. That way, when the final shudder comes, I'll pat the dash and climb out grateful instead of betrayed.

Lessons Josie teaches, in no particular order:

1. Set your mirrors wide—the past is large and will sneak up.
   
   
2. Use the shoulder when needed—there's more room there than you think.
   
   
3. A stripped bolt is not failure, it's negotiation.
   
   
4. When offered pie, say yes. Calories burn quicker than regret.
   
   
5. Keep a bar of soap for squealing belts and for hands that soil themselves helping.
   
   
6. Remember: every stranger is your mechanic-in-waiting.
   
   

Sage advice shaped from busted knuckles and county-road ash.

People ask what keeps me going when the van bucks and the bank account wheezes. I tell them about the porch lights. Drive through any town after dark—Chillicothe, Ohio, or Siloam Springs, Arkansas—and you'll spot a single porch bulb glowing over peeling paint, each one a lighthouse declaring there is still hospitality here. Josie pilots me bulb to bulb, proof-gathering for an argument that kindness persists.

One drizzly Thursday, after sixty dead miles, she rolled into an RV park outside Hannibal almost on fumes. I expected gate fees and suspicion. Instead an old couple motioned me over. We chatted a bit about Josie, how they'd had a VW bus back in the day. Loved it, they said. "Sorry we ever sold it," the man said. It was dinner time and they were fixing hamburgers over a charcoal grill. They offered me to stay for dinner. I quickly did the math: another can of beef stew vs. fresh ground beef. There wasn't even an argument in my head. I accepted.

One burger, a couple of cold brews, and a few hours of conversation about road life, the tour I was on, and it was beyond my bedtime. I rose to leave and offered some money for their hospitality. They refused. The woman simply asked to sit inside Josie, smell the vinyl, "hear the memories hum." We idled ten minutes while she told how, in 1979, they'd driven their bus to Yellowstone. "It rattled like a popcorn popper," she said. "But we heard each other talk every mile." That is the romance: the engine as conversation starter, the rattle as translator between generations.

Sooner or later, Josie will reach the hill she can't top: maybe a mountain pass too steep, maybe just the arithmetic of time. Until then we court each other across the map, exchanging vows at every sunrise. She promises one more crank; I promise to carry tools and humility.

In towns where interstates never came close, we park under ghost signs advertising chewing tobacco and ten-cent ice cream. Children peer through sliding glass, ask if she's a food truck. Teens pose for selfies, hashtag vanlife though they've never changed a tire. Old men kneel, trace fingertips over imaginary bumper stickers of their youth. They stand, eyes glinting like wrenches under shop light, and say, "Don't stop. We need you out here, reminding folks the road still belongs to dreamers."

Stories ride shotgun, it's true. And like any good romance, ours grows richer the longer it refuses to conform. Smooth asphalt is fine for rental sedans; give me washboard gravel, give me culverts swallowing mufflers, give me a sideways glance at the gas gauge, and a prayer for downhill coasts. In those margins I've met farmers who swap melons for spark plugs, grandmothers who bless trip and traveler with cedar-oil crosses on the windshield, baristas who scribble directions to free camping on paper cups. Romance is the economy of such exchanges—value traded in trust, not tender.

One day, perhaps, I'll park Josie for the last time—engine tired, frame freckled with rust, fan breathing its gasp. I'll step out, pocket the keys, and walk away slow. But I know this: long after scavengers salvage her parts, the romance will idle, valves ticking, somewhere in another pilgrim's chest. They'll hear it when they pass a dusty exit and wonder what might happen if they turned off the highway, slowed to human speed, and let the world climb in through cracked wing windows.

Until that day, we'll keep wandering: two faded tones, plenty of squeaks, plenty of room in the back for stray thoughts. The wind will push against her flat nose and spill around her corners with a sigh, as if even the air itself understands—some loves are better built box-shaped, rattling, vulnerable, unashamed of the patchwork keeping them together. Some romances are meant to go slow enough for the heart to keep up.