Dead deer lie on the shoulder. Buffalo penned in. Hawks swirl up above. Sky is purple. Sun will come up soon, looking like a yolk broke all over God’s land. A bridge over a river.

He keeps it at sixty. The truck shakes a little. Bad bearings. He tosses a cigarette out the window and watches it bounce. Lit tip blown out by a northern wind. The radio is playing Night Moves through a tinny speaker. Seat is torn.

A shotgun hangs on a rack behind him. Bullets in the glove box along with license and registration, a couple of twenties, and a pack of Wrigley’s.

Heading to Chicago. Back to a town, he won’t recognize. It’s been twenty years since he lived there. Humboldt Park. Wicker Park. Roger’s Park. Lakeview. He moved around Chi-town like a scurrying rat being chased by Animal Control. He never wanted to be caged.

So he left. Quit everything and just left one night; leaving a woman and a kid behind. Told her he was going out for cigarettes, filled up the tank instead, and just kept driving west through Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, all the way out to Colorado. He’d always heard it was nice.

What makes a man return to a place he left years ago. Guilt? Curiosity? Wanting to see how it all turned out? He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Wanted to tell the boy he was sorry as well. He had no idea where they were, just hoping they were still in town on the Northside. Hoping they were still alive. 

One hundred miles to Chicago. He pulled over in a rest area and decided he wasn’t ready to face her or him. Took a stick of Spearmint and tossed the wrapper out the window. And turned around.

Jackson Brown plays on the radio.