The Route Is Not Proof

I keep treating the route recording like a witness I can control. It cannot ask why I am doing this, or decide my account sounds inconvenient. It only keeps the road in order. I know that is not the same as being believed, but I can make the distinction later, when there is a later to deal with.

The permit alert has turned every mile into a small argument with myself. I want to call the run necessary. I want to call it mine. Both things can be true, and neither makes the breach disappear. I hate that the buyer can ring while I am the one carrying the risk, as if urgency belongs to whoever wants the animals. I let the call go unanswered. That felt good for half a second, then felt like another decision I will have to defend.

My palm keeps throbbing under the wrap. Part of me wants the pain to count as evidence that I am not just being dramatic or difficult. That is an ugly bargain to make with my own body. I am tired of needing a mark before I trust what I know happened.

All eight are still secure. I can keep that fact simple. I do not have to turn it into a claim that I can manage everything alone. I want someone else to take one watch, and I still hate how much I want it.