I’m on a bus heading east on 30. It is quiet. No noise. People are asleep or sitting in silence staring at their phones. Ninety-eight miles to go.

Semis pass by us. Minivans and SUVs heading out in search of America race each other; who’ll get to Florida first? Who knows where they’re heading.

They are families of four traveling over Midwestern landscape; bare corn fields, stalks chopped down, green grass in the median, blank trees staring at them. A kid on the side of the road throwing up. Mom pats his back.

Rusted railroad tracks run parallel to the highway. I wonder if Kerouac ever rode them. Wonder if he missed his home. Missed his brother, who died for his sins.

The sign says 81 miles to Fort Wayne. I miss my kid brother. Soon, I will see him alone in a room at the nursing home. I’ll bring him a chocolate bunny. Mom used to give us those when we were kids. Hopefully, he’ll smile when he bites its head off. A decapitated chocolate rabbit. It’ll be good to see him.

Soon, it will be dark.