une femme voilée.

I don't consciously decide to head south. It’s more like one exit becomes another. The mountains settle back onto the horizon where they've always belonged. I stop reading the mile markers after a while. Don't need them anyway. My hands remember before the rest of me does. Must be some kind of muscle memory or shit like that.

Truth or Consequences appears exactly the way I left it:  The water tower still stands. The same faded sign welcomes folks who should better keep on driving. The gas station still has those sun-bleached ice chests out front that never seem to melt, no matter how hot July gets. Somebody replaced the letters on the church marquee, but the message underneath ain't changed much. Empty words for empty hearts.

I drive slower through streets that once felt bigger, or maybe that was just me back then. Every corner carries the outline of someone I used to know until I get close enough to see a stranger walking their dog or watering a yard that belonged to somebody else twenty years ago. Nobody looks twice at the truck. Why would they? I'm just another man passing through.

The trailer park sits where it always did, tucked against the edge of town like an afterthought people liked to ignore then and now. The trailer I grew up in wears fresh paint, somebody planted flowers in old tires by the steps. Children's bikes lie in the dirt. This looks like effort and I wonder how this place can look so much better, so much more inviting, with this little change.

For a second, I think about knocking just to hear what my own name sounds like in somebody else's mouth. But I know this is the thought of the boy I once was - the man I am now should know better. Nobody here remembers my name, nobody is waiting for me. I don’t stay long, instead I keep driving.

The old cinema takes another ten minutes to find. The marquee is long gone. Windows boarded over and plastered with cheaply printed ads for some local band I have never heard of. I used to slip in through the side door after the second showing of the day. Nobody got paid enough to stop a skinny kid who knew how to make themself disappear in a crowd. I'd sit in the back row and watch stories that made no damn sense to me, happy enough just borrowing somebody else's life for a couple hours.

The side door's chained shut now. A shopping cart leans against the entrance. I see an abundance of blankets and cans. A blue tarp stretched low against the wind. Someone made themselves a home beneath the old box office. A mutt with one ear missing lifts its head when my truck rolls into the lot. The dog doesn’t bark or anything, he just keeps a watchful eye on me and my truck. Echo lifts his head and meets the gaze of the other animal. For a second I think they might recognize each other, which of course is a mad thought. Why would they?

I remember I got a bag of kibble behind the seat. Bought it yesterday because Echo was running low again. I grab it and open the door to carry it over and leave it by the tarp. I never see the man inside, but I don't need to.

One bad week, hell, one bad decision. I can easily see the shape of my own life bending that direction sooner rather than later. The dog waits until I'm halfway back before sniffing the bag. I scratch Echo between the ears once I'm behind the wheel again. "Could've been us." He leans into my hand. The radio's still playing.

Who's gonna drive you home tonight?

I laugh once, muffled enough that it barely counts. I’ve been driving myself for years, but never home. Guess I finally made it. Turns out home forgot to leave the porch light on for me. The sun hangs low when I pull back onto the highway. The town shrinks in the rearview mirror until it fits inside the frame of the back window, then disappears altogether. It’s an odd feeling and I don’t know what I expected. Some places remember the version of you that never got to grow up.

I switch the radio station to some recent rock song, one that doesn’t carry any memories.