Maybe thirty miles after my phone died and fifty miles past
the last signpost, I finally saw someone, an old man sitting on the front porch
of his house, fields of wheat surrounding his property, and rose bushes
covering most of that.
I pulled into his drive and got out of the car.
“Excuse me, where’s this road go?”
He slowly crushed out a cigarette on the arm of his rocking
chair.
“Every road goes somewhere, but it’s more important to know
why you’re travelling it.”
I stared at him.
“To get to Greenville.”
He seemed disappointed for some reason.
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