Chiriaco Summit, 5 am.

Gary pulls the bus off I-10 to fuel up and the combination of jet lag and the cessation of the comforting sound of our wheels on the asphalt rouses me from my bunk. The sun is rising over the desert and the sky looks like a set designer’s painting. Huge trucks that could be on this road for 2000 miles in a straight line to the Florida coast roll past. There is no sign of human habitation other than the fuel stop and the road. I might as well be on Mars.