"You tell me that when the sky is blue."
"Because you drive like a man who thinks the highway owes him an apology."
Curtis smiled faintly.
Leon pushed a folder across the counter.
"Load number four-seven-two-eight. Refrigerated medical supplies. Nothing complicated. Temperature requirements are in the packet. Delivery window is seven to nine Thursday morning."
Curtis reviewed the documents.
"Trailer number?"
"Sixteen-twelve."
"Seal?"
"Applied after loading. Verify before departure."
Curtis nodded.
Leon watched him sign the paperwork.
"You doing okay?"
"Why?"
"You're quieter than usual."
"I'm always quiet."
"Not this quiet."
Curtis closed the folder.
"Just tired."
Leon leaned back.
"Your daughter still in school?"
"Finishing her program."
"That's good. You must be proud."
"I am."
"She going to work in a hospital?"
"That's the plan."
Leon nodded.
"Good people needed in hospitals."
Curtis slid the folder into his work bag.
"Good people needed everywhere."
Leon gave him a look.
"That sounds like something a man says when he's about to retire."
"Don't threaten me with a good idea."
They laughed.
Curtis left the office and walked toward his assigned tractor.
The truck was a dark blue Freightliner, clean but not new. Its paint had faded slightly along the hood, and the driver's seat had a small tear near the lower cushion. Curtis maintained it carefully. He checked the lights, tires, mirrors, fluid levels, and trailer connections before taking it onto the road.
Routine mattered.
Routine kept small mistakes from becoming large ones.
He was halfway through the inspection when another driver approached.
"Hey, Dawson."
Curtis looked up.
It was Marcus Bell, a thirty-year-old driver who had joined the company six months earlier. Marcus was energetic, talkative, and frequently convinced that every problem could be solved by moving faster.
"Morning," Curtis said.
Marcus looked at the checklist in Curtis's hand.
"You really do that every time?"
"Every time."
"Even when the truck ran fine yesterday?"
"Especially then."
Marcus laughed.
"Man, I don't have that kind of patience."
"Then you should develop it."
Marcus leaned against the trailer.
"You ever think about doing something else? You've been driving long enough to know every pothole between here and the East Coast."
"That's why I know which ones to avoid."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Marcus studied him.
"You ever talk about what you did before trucking?"
Curtis lowered the clipboard.
"Not much."
"Leon said you were in the Army."
"I was."
"What unit?"
"One that paid me to show up on time."
Marcus laughed.
"That's all I get?"
"That's all you need."
There was no hostility in Curtis's voice. But Marcus recognized the boundary and did not push.
He pointed toward the trailer.
"Well, safe run."
"You too."
Curtis completed the inspection, signed the form, and climbed into the cab.
As the engine turned over, he glanced at the photograph tucked into the corner of the dashboard.
It was a small picture of Maya at twelve, standing beside her mother at a county fair. Denise had one arm around their daughter. Maya was laughing at something outside the frame.
Curtis had taken the photograph.
He had kept it through three different apartments, two trucks, and a decade of changes.
He adjusted it slightly so it would not fall.
Then he pulled out of the yard.
The first day of the trip passed without incident.
Curtis drove through Kentucky and into Ohio, stopping at a service plaza to check the trailer temperature and buy a sandwich. The weather remained clear until late afternoon, when clouds gathered along the horizon.
He called Maya during a break.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Dad?"
"Am I interrupting?"
"Only a very serious argument with a vending machine."
"What did the machine do?"
"It stole my dollar."
"Did you threaten it?"
"I considered it."
"Good. But remember, violence should always be a last resort."
She laughed.
"You're the one who used to tell me to stand up for myself."
"I did."
"So?"
"So standing up for yourself and fighting a vending machine are different things."
"Not when it steals your money."
Curtis smiled.
He could hear the noise of students in the background.
"How was the test?"
"You saw the picture."
"I did."
"Ninety-six."
"I noticed."
"Are you going to say you're proud of me?"
"I thought the photograph was enough."
"Dad."
"I'm proud of you, Maya."
Her voice softened.
"Thanks."
He leaned against the side of the truck.
"How are clinicals going?"
"Busy. We had a patient today who was terrified of being put on oxygen. He kept saying he didn't want to become dependent on anything."
"What did you tell him?"
"That oxygen isn't a failure. It's a tool. It gives his body a little help while he gets stronger."
Curtis was quiet for a moment.
"That's a good way to explain it."
"I thought so."
"Did he understand?"
"Eventually."
"Good."
Maya hesitated.
"Are you eating properly?"
Curtis looked at the sandwich wrapper beside him.
"Yes."
"That sounded suspicious."
"I had a sandwich."
"That's not a meal."
"It had lettuce."
"Dad."
"And tomato."
"You're impossible."
He laughed.
They spoke for another few minutes. Maya told him about a classmate who had mistaken a mannequin for a real patient during a simulation. Curtis told her about Marcus and his argument with the potholes.
Eventually she had to return to class.