PART 7 – The Things We Carry
They crossed into Utah by late morning.
The border sign was cracked and fading, but Caleb still reached out the window and slapped it as they passed.
“For luck,” he said.
Earl grinned. “You’re full of superstition.”
“Better than being full of nothing.”
The highway stretched out in pale gold, framed by plateaus and rocky spires that stood like sentinels of the old world. Buck snored softly on the seat between them, his new tag clinking with each breath.
They passed a line of weather-beaten crosses planted into a hillside. Earl slowed the truck, pulled over.
“What is it?” Caleb asked.
“Memorial,” Earl said, already stepping out.
They walked up the slope, the dust rising in little ghosts behind their boots. Each cross bore a name, a date, and a photo. Veterans. Locals. Truckers who didn’t make it home.
Earl removed his cap and stood silent in front of a cross marked Jim “Lefty” Carson, 1944–1998.
“Knew him?” Caleb asked.
“Drove the I-15 with him for a few years. Always carried a little black radio with baseball scores scribbled on the side.”
Earl knelt briefly and brushed sand from the base of the marker. Caleb stood a few feet back, hands in his pockets, watching the old man move like he’d done this before.
When they returned to the truck, neither of them spoke for a while. Some silences, Caleb had learned, were not emptiness—but memory.
They stopped for fuel in a town so small it didn’t have a name on the map. Just a single pump, a sagging roof, and an old man in overalls who nodded without speaking.
Inside, Earl bought a small bag of ice, a bottle of water, and a plain ham sandwich. He eyed the glazed donuts spinning lazily in their case but turned away.
Caleb pointed. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Earl said.
“Man,” Caleb grinned, “you’ve got willpower like a monk.”
Earl winked. “Willpower’s just regret on a leash.”
They ate at the edge of the lot, sitting on the tailgate. Buck sat between them, his nose twitching every few seconds.
“You ever think about going back?” Caleb asked.
“To what?”
“Before.”
Earl chewed slowly, considering it.
“Sometimes. But there ain’t no ‘before’ that fits me anymore.”
Caleb nodded. “Yeah. Me neither.”
They drove again until the red dust turned to sagebrush and the sky stretched wide as a canvas. Earl played a few old tapes—Waylon, then Patsy, then silence again. Somewhere near Moab, Caleb pulled a folded scrap of paper from his coat pocket.
“What’s that?” Earl asked.
“A letter. I wrote it a while back. Never sent it.”
“Who’s it for?”
“My mom.”
Earl didn’t ask more.
After a pause, Caleb said, “You think it’s dumb to keep something like this?”
Earl shook his head. “It’s not dumb to hold on. It’s brave to carry something heavy.”
Caleb folded the paper again, slower this time, and tucked it back into his pocket like it mattered.
That night, they found a ridge overlooking the canyons—a place where stars came out like fireflies on parade. They lit a small fire and boiled coffee water in an old tin kettle.
Buck curled up, his back to the flames, watching the darkness with calm certainty.
Earl leaned back against the front tire.
“You think this road ends soon?” Caleb asked.
Earl took a long moment to answer.
“I think all roads end eventually,” he said. “But sometimes… they give you just enough time to set things right.”
PART 8 – The Letter Never Sent
The sunrise hit the canyon like spilled gold, waking the red rocks in slow motion. Earl poured coffee while Caleb sat on a boulder, the still-folded letter in his hands.
He hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t needed to. Every word was already stitched into his memory like a scar that refused to fade.
“You want to talk about her?” Earl asked, his voice gentle.
Caleb shook his head. “Not yet.”
Earl didn’t push. The fire crackled between them. Buck stretched and groaned like a man twice his age, then trotted toward Caleb and nudged his arm.
“I think he wants you to open it,” Earl said, sipping.
Caleb smiled faintly. “He just wants peanut butter.”
Earl pulled the jar from the bag and handed it over. “He’s not the only one.”
They ate quietly, spooning straight from the jar, the morning cool and quiet around them.
On the road again, Earl felt the weight of nearing the end.
The places looked familiar now. Hills he remembered from long hauls. A turnoff where he and Lorna once got stuck for three hours behind a cattle trailer. A roadside fruit stand where she’d laughed so hard at a dancing goat, she snorted root beer out her nose.
“Do you think the past ever forgives us?” he asked suddenly.
Caleb looked up from where he’d been tracing fog on the window. “Maybe it doesn’t need to. Maybe we just have to forgive ourselves.”
Earl gave a soft hum. “You sure you’re only twelve?”
“Almost thirteen,” Caleb replied. “And I read a lot.”
That afternoon, they reached a valley filled with junipers and wind. Earl pulled over near an abandoned gas station. There wasn’t much left—just a rusted sign, a cracked soda machine, and a bench overgrown with weeds.
“This used to be full of truckers,” Earl said. “Used to be alive.”
They got out and walked around, poking at the edges of time. Caleb found a smashed pinball machine. Buck sniffed at a torn cushion filled with mouse droppings.
Earl sat on the bench and closed his eyes. Caleb sat beside him, dangling his legs.
“You ever think about keeping me?” Caleb asked suddenly.
Earl opened one eye. “You mean like a stray pup?”
Caleb grinned. “Yeah. But taller.”
Earl leaned back. “You’re not a stray anymore.”
Silence fell between them, easy and strong.
Then Caleb whispered, “I want to send the letter.”
Earl nodded. “You ready?”
“I think I am.”
They drove into the nearest town—Shiprock. Earl asked around at the post office and bought Caleb a fresh envelope. The boy sat on the curb outside, carefully copying his words onto clean paper, folding it with care, sealing it shut.
He wrote an address on the front with shaky penmanship.
When he dropped it into the mailbox, Buck barked once, like a salute.
They camped that night near a narrow creek, stars blazing above like silver stories written across black velvet.
Earl sat by the fire, rubbing his knees.
Caleb came over and sat close.
“You ever think maybe Lorna put me in your path?” he asked.
Earl looked at the boy’s face—tired, hopeful, growing.
“I think… maybe she never left the truck.”
Caleb nodded.
And Buck, already dreaming, thumped his tail against the dirt.
