The marshalling yard has gone up from $12 to $19. We're required to park in the marshalling yard. At least there's the tiny, concrete block box with running water two football fields away. We take the bike path along Lake Michigan in the evening before we go to sleep. You'll get up at five to check in.

Chicago has a big convention center. In my memory, seven trucks are parked, dwarfed on the floor and there's a ring of trucks backed into the loading docks. I pick my way between fork lifts that are speeding at capacity, horns blowing. Electric cables, thick as my arm, dangle down from five stories above, the close-end plugged into nail guns hammering and drills screwing. Men are yelling at each other. Crates taller than me are being loaded. I pick a spot on the horizon and head for the opposite wall center. When I reach there in one piece, there's a wide staircase down. It's a full flight but with the size of the building, it seems like a couple of steps. I turn right at the bottom. The restrooms are just a little ways. The noise from the floor is starting to hush and when I push through the door it stops. There are no other women. The fifty stalls are pristine. The sinks glow beneath the muted light off the mirrors. It is painted a deep red. It is silent, empty, clean. In my memory, I stand still in the center.

This Sunday morning is a miracle. You start the coffee before you check in. It is still dark. I pee in my pot and throw it between the trucks before lying back down. But you're back and they say to drive up to the docks. This morning, there is no six hour wait. No time to set up the lawn chairs infront of the truck grill. This morning, I don't even get up. I just lay under the down quilts and the pillows. After you back in, you set the air brakes with a hiss, and pour coffee for each of us. And then you even take the leash, take Tip, and walk him up and down the conrete.

The crates are ready. I lie on the bunk, Tip alongside, and bounce each time the fork lift enters the trailer, drops its crate and backs out. I can judge how the trailer is filling as the bounce gets softer towards the back of the trailer.

And then, you're back inside with a handful of papers signed off. Your starting the truck and Tip jumps onto the passenger seat with my jeans, navy sweatshirt, still folded on the back. He looks out the side window and then curves his black, white, gray neck to stare full in the face at you and smile as you knock the air brakes in with the heel of your palm.

I sit up in my corner in my oversize, gray, Vanliner tee shirt. I lean back against the padded gray flannel walls and drink coffee. I can just see out the windsheild. In the truck the real world has a meager connection but from the bunk there is no connection at all and right now I am safe.