New Mexico gets weird at night. All is invisible. Red clay, mountains, yellow lines on the highway, all of it missing. You drive for miles in darkness. Headlights on high beam till Albuquerque appears. It’s like a giant spaceship. Picking up people and taking them to a far away destination. A place that has no soul. Perhaps Los Angeles.

We drove all night and into the next day. From Amarillo to Flagstaff. Yoohoo drinks, a thermos of black coffee, two cartons of Marlboros and shotguns on the rack hiding behind a thin black veil. No music on the radio. Talk coming in from all over the West. People arguing without a point. The sky turns into orange and purple sherbet.

That truck got up to fifty-five out on the open road. Wouldn’t go any faster. Fears of throwing a rod or breaking a belt. Tires thin. Oil stick showing low.

We pulled into the rest area at the tip of Arizona. Semis humming. Station wagons filled with luggage. Kids holding dads hands as they go inside to take a leak and hit the vending machines. Looking at maps of highways and freeways, towns and cities, mountain ranges. Places to go and get lost for days, maybe years. The Grand Canyon.

A Peterbilt from Arkansas pulled in at daybreak. His plates were the ones we were looking for. We waited for the right time.

You know where you’re going? I asked Frankie. He nodded and took a shotgun from the rack on the back window. I’ll stay right here till you take off. Frankie extended his hand, and I shook it. Tight grip like it was the last flesh he’d ever touch.

As he approached the truck, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Gun shots rang out, and Frank laid there on the pavement, all ripped apart, as if he was waiting to be killed. Air-brakes released. The Peterbilt with women drawn on mud flaps took off .

The sky was turning blue.