The third time's charmed, no lines, no smoking engines. We pull up to the shop. Only one truck in line. I wait to make sure. Tony goes inside. He's out in a minute. Two trucks ahead. I take the dogs on leash. They dance and prance. Tip bucks it up. There's a breeze to lick off the sweat. Sun fat in my eyes. Men's cargo shorts down to my knees and an extra large tee shirt. Nothing enticing. I never have a problem. Around Atlanta, walking out of the truck stop, bad ju-ju's in the air but not because I'm a woman. Out in New Orleans, African Americans missing front teeth, swaying to the chemicals stop to say a kind word to the dogs. I hate the truck stops around DC because they're filthy, there's no grass but no one bothers me. It's the trick of camo so eyes slide right past. Walking out a strange truck stop, the plan is right turns. As long as we turn right we get back. Tony says bring my phone. I can always call him. I say what good's that? You don't know where I am. I don't know where I am. I take my Timex. Navigation based on the spiral of shadows falling off the trees, timing between turns and tracking a single direction. We are never lost.