The last week of my lease, I found a swim cap in the junk drawer. Bright blue, still tagged.
I'd bought it the summer I swore I'd start swimming laps. That was three years and zero laps ago.
I threw it in the donation box, then took it back out and tossed it in the passenger seat. I don't know why.
Now it's 3 AM and I'm at a rest stop somewhere in central Pennsylvania, eating a vending machine sandwich that tastes like wet bread folded around disappointment.
I don't know where I'm going exactly. A friend of a friend said there's a room above a garage in Richmond. That's the whole plan.
The rest stop is bright and empty except for one trucker filling a thermos. He nods at me. I nod back.
I took another bite and realized the fear was gone. Not courage, not resolve. Just hunger, and a road ahead I couldn't see the end of.
That felt like enough. That felt like the beginning of something.