When I was 19, I started driving freight. I opted to put a car seat in the truck and take Micah with me when childcare became too pricey. He is already two years old, smart, and determined. He already knows more about radio-check procedures than some of the new staff. He enjoys the trip, even though it’s not a normal one. He is already two years old and shows intelligence, determination, and a level of radio-checking skill that is better than that of some new workers.
He likes the road, even if it’s not very common. He likes how tires sound, move, and keep a steady beat on asphalt. Are we being totally honest? Being near him helps with feeling lonely.
We wear the same bright jackets, share snacks, and sing the same off-key songs all the way down the road. Most days blur together, like truck stops, delivery docks, and times when you need to fill up.
But something happened last week, not far from Amarillo.
We had stopped at a rest area just before the sun went set. While I looked over the trailer straps, Micah sat on the curb, whistling and playing with his toy dump truck.
He suddenly looked up at me and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”
I blinked. “Who, baby?”
Micah pointed at the cab. “The guy in the front seat.” He was here the day before.
I stopped moving.
We were all alone. We are alone all the time. No one else can get into the truck. All the time.
I got down on my knees next to him. “What’s up, man? Micah?”
He didn’t look scared. Let’s pay attention to the little things. “The person who gave me the document said it was for you.”
I had a glance at the taxi. Nothing sticks out. But later, when I opened the glove box to get my logbook, it was there.
A piece of paper that has been folded.
It bears Micah’s name on the front.
And on the inside—
It was a picture.
The pencil work was simple yet very careful. The picture showed Micah and myself sitting in the cab together. I was driving with one hand and reached behind with the other to offer Micah an apple slice while he held his toy truck.
At the bottom, there was a message that said, “Keep going.” He is happy with you.
No name. No justification given. That’s it.
I looked at it for a long time, and my heart raced like a drum. I didn’t knew how to feel about it. I didn’t say anything to Micah. I didn’t want to scare him.
I folded it up and put it in Vise. I tried not to shake so I wouldn’t feel the cold crawling up my back. Someone at the last stop may have gotten too close. It might have been a weird joke. It might not have meant anything at all.
But the next morning, when we were leaving Amarillo, I saw Micah in the mirror. He was glancing at the passenger seat again, as if he hoped someone would be there.
That night, I parked my car outside a diner in New Mexico. I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I locked the taxi from the inside and wrapped my arm around Micah as he snuggled up to me. I jumped at every sound outside.
The drawing disturbed me, not because it was terrifying, but because it looked like something I had seen before. The calligraphy brought up a memory that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
We went into some bad weather around Flagstaff three days later. The hail was as big as marbles, the roads were slippery, and you couldn’t see very far. I came to the truck stop early and chose to wait.
While I was filling up, an older man in a dirty flannel shirt walked up to me. His face was aged, and his eyes looked tired, like he had been through too many winters.
“Are you the one with the little boy?” he asked.
I nodded, and right away I was on guard.
He stopped to consider for a time before saying, “You might want to talk to Dottie in the house.” She saw something strange yesterday. About your truck.
My stomach dropped.
Dottie was a short woman with silver hair and a look that made everyone in the diner stop talking.
She looked at me and said, “You the driver with the kid?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart pumping. “What did you see?”
Dottie leaned in closer and dried her hands on a towel. “I was closing up last night.” The back of your rig was where it was parked. There was a man standing next to the passenger side. He was tall, had a beard, and wore a denim jacket that was worn out. It sounded like he was talking to someone inside.
I took a look. “There was no one there.” We weren’t even in the truck then.
She raised one eyebrow. “Someone was, though. I walked outside to check on him, and he was gone in a flash. It seemed like he just walked back into the shadows and disappeared.
I had a hard time swallowing. “Did he leave anything behind?”
She came to a stop. “Come with me.”
She reached inside a broken mailbox at the side door, which was near to where I had parked. “This was stuffed in here this morning.”
It was a distinct piece of paper that was folded.
This one didn’t have a name on it, but when I opened it, there was another drawing: Micah asleep on my chest and me crying as I looked out the windshield.
The words below it said, “You are not by yourself.” You weren’t.
My knees gave way.
I thanked her, but my voice was so weak that I could barely speak. I walked Micah back to the truck with unsteady hands.
I left the freeway that night and drove down a little rural road. I needed some time to think. I needed some space.
After Micah fell asleep, I sat in the driver’s seat with the drawings in my hands and looked out at the sky above the desert.
And suddenly it made sense.
The way the lettering looked really caught my eye. The lines in the drawing are very interesting. Micah kept saying “he.”
It looked a lot like the pictures my brother used to do when we were kids.
My brother Jordan is older than me. He had always taken care of me as I grew up. A drunk driver hit him on his way home from work six years ago, and he died.
He never met Micah.
I started to cry so hard that my whole body shook. o matter. It was him.
While Micah was sleeping, he moved about and spoke something I couldn’t hear. Then he turned over and smiled sweetly.
I didn’t know how to phrase it. I still don’t.
Things started to change after that night.
The alterations were small but frightening, like something out of a ghost story. There were no lights that flickered or patches that were cold. Just… signals.
Micah would say things like “Uncle Jo says slow down” right before I almost missed a turn or hit a patch of black ice.
I thought I had lost a toy in the glove compartment, but I found it.
And every now and then, another drawing would show up just when I needed it the most.
I spotted one in Micah’s coloring book one day when I was exhausted, broke, and thinking about quitting after a really hard delivery in Missouri.
I saw a picture of myself close to my rig with the sun rising behind me. And the phrase “Keep going.” You’re doing something great.
I kept them all. Now there are nine. Each one was like a whisper from a place far away from the noise, diesel, and dust.
The last one happened only a few days ago, close to Sacramento.
We had stopped at a quiet rest break. I was tired. Micah was quite unhappy. I was doubting everything again: if this was the right life for him and if I was harming him more than helping him.
When I opened the cab’s fridge, there found another letter stuck to the milk container.
There were no pictures in the mail this time. There was only one sentence in the letter.
“He’ll remember how strong and loving you are.” The distance doesn’t matter.
That’s when I decided to tell this story.
I think that the path sometimes gives back. The trip often happens in strange, quiet ways.
There are some things that can’t be put into words. And maybe that’s okay.
I don’t know much else, but I’m still alive. I’m still on the road. I’m still trying my best to take care of Micah.
And sometimes, when the night is long and the highway hums softly below us, I feel like I’m not alone.
I had the impression that Jordan is still in the backseat.
So if you’ve lost someone yet still feel them close, pay attention.
Look around.
You might also find a letter in the glove box.
And if you do, hold on to it.
Love doesn’t always go away. It just changes seats.
If this story touched you, please think about sharing it. Someone else out there might need to be reassured that they aren’t as alone as they think they are.
I’d love to hear about any signs you’ve seen, no matter how minor or strange they were.
What do you think? They might all be out there with us, riding along.
Let’s go one mile at a time.
