For eleven years, I called Ray every night at 11:15. Right after my shift ended, right before his began.
We'd been rivals first. Same route, same customers, both of us scrapping for the best loads at Dalton Freight.
Then one January my rig died on Route 9 and he was the only one who answered the dispatch. Three hours in his cab, passing his dented thermos back and forth, and something shifted.
After that, the nightly call. Five minutes, sometimes twenty. Just making sure the other one made it home.
I left Dalton for a desk job in 2019. Said I'd still call. I did for a while. Then I didn't.
Last month I found his number and couldn't remember the last thing we'd said. That's the thing about roads taken—you don't always know you've arrived until you look back and can't see who used to walk beside you.