Porchlight gives off a yellow color. He sits in the morning darkness with a cup of coffee, listening to frogs croak and crickets laugh. Two feral cats hiss at each other. There’s going to be a fight. Over what? Stale bread? A dead bird? Popcorn thrown out in the yard? He takes another swig of coffee and wipes his mouth on his long sleeve. Lights a cigarette.

Semis go up and down 41. Some go north to Chicago while others head south to Terre Haute. Air-brakes and engines. Tires roll. Headlights shine.

The old man remembers when he used to ride across country in big rigs. Drivers picking up teenagers, runaways at truck stops down the road, heading to New York, New Orleans,  Los Angeles,  Seattle, any place, but far, far away. 

The fat man laughed as he sat in a trance, thinking about his youth. He wished he could do it again.

Never live with past regrets, he whispered. I should have stayed in Albuquerque.