The Long Haul to Maine

The biting night air of a Virginia truck stop wrapped around you as you leaned against your eighteen-wheeler, the red glow of your cigarette a small beacon in the darkness.
You watched the endless parade of trucks, the rhythmic pulse of the highway your constant companion. Four years on the road, and you were used to the solitude. It beat the questions, the 'business' of home.
Then you saw her – a young Black woman, dragging luggage, eyes darting, radiating pure, unadulterated fear. Something about her felt different from the usual road drama.
"What you doin' 'round here with all that luggage?" you called out, the question leaving your lips before you could think better of it. She stopped, her eyes locking onto yours, hesitation warring with desperation. Then she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
"Trying to run away."
