When I first take-up with you, you are only fits and starts. You suck tiny bottles of ginsing, down caffeine pills stacked at the counter for drivers. I am itchy from no shower in three days. Voice hoarse simply from exhaustion. In the sunrise you are gray. I keep you talking, whitle your stories, keep you in our lane. Finally demanding: pull over now, you put your head down on the wheel for fifteen minutes.

Now I am asking, why did I keep on? Nine and a half out of ten would say: Insanity. I am a nurse. Almost fifty. Don't drink, no drugs. Still smoking. Kids grown up. Two divorces down. A flotsam and jetsam. I am a person totally bereft of expectations. My major skill: surviving ridiculously bad situations without help.

This night, you park right off the break-down-lane. I always wake up first. There is nothing for me but to be silent and stare out the windsheild. This morning there are rocks. Jagged rocks, vomited, rejected from the core, piled by the way side. The sun is out. It is cold. I climb down from the truck and walk. I just walk down the road. Before I get back, five cars will pull over to ask if I need help.

What is it I never answer?