I-80 runs from San Francisco to Teaneck, New Jersey.  It crosses the Midwest.  States like Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. Thousands of cars and trucks take this piece of road every day, passing exits, billboards, toll road booths, and rest areas where people park and sleep or use the bathrooms, maybe get something to eat. It’s a true piece of Americana. All types, going east or west. Over the road drivers making deliveries and popping pills to stay awake, families going on vacation with kids screaming in the backseat, outlaws on the run, the lost, adventurers, those who can’t take it anymore, all of them singing along to the soundtrack that is the United States of America.

Ben and Meg drove this road of white lines and concrete heading east. He picked her up just outside of a small town in Illinois, where she lived with her mom. Dad left when she was six. Never liked being a husband or a father. No one knows where he went to, but Meg swore one day she’d find him and set him straight.

The radio was tuned to a classic rock and roll station. Bad Finger was playing Baby Blue. Ben sang along.

You know this song? Ben asked.

No. Sounds funny. Sounds old. Are you old?

Ben laughed and lit up a joint. The nighttime air came through the windows and vents. It felt cool. Like something new was coming their way.

I suspect you’re pretty young. She  nodded her head as he handed her the experience. That’s what he called getting high; the experience. 

I’m old enough to get you in trouble, she told him. Why don’t you guess.

Alright. I’d say sixteen.

How’d you know?

Used to guess people’s ages and weights for a carnival.

Oh. That’s interesting.

Yeah. I’ve lived a really interesting life.

They pulled over at a rest area in Pennsylvania. Tall trees covered the Dodge. They both leaned back in their pleather seats, shut their eyes, and dreamed.