The Route Beneath My Pillow

I felt strangely calm when I saw the cut in the brake hose. That is the part I do not like about myself. Fear should have hit first, but I looked at that sabotage and felt my mind go clean and sharp, as if a dangerous problem had spared me from every softer one.

The truck is not everything. I tell myself that often because it sounds brave and keeps me moving. Still, I left more of myself at the roadside than I left at the guesthouse. The camera, the sketchbook, the tools—those matter because they belong to the work I chose. Everything else can be explained as practical.

Marika’s exposed address frightened me more than the hose did. At least someone cut metal. An address is an invitation to become involved, and involvement with her would mean admitting that I am not merely passing through on my way to the next wish. I sent Ethan the warning. That was enough for tonight.

I keep the marked route under my pillow as if paper can guard me. Foolish. The danger is not only at the depot; it travels with me once I know which questions matter.

Under the shaky lamp, Solomon’s confirmation looked painfully solid. I envied him for having signed something definite, even when the signature belonged to an old copied form. I wanted one clean fact that could not be taken away by morning.