My brother Tony had taken out a loan to buy his own rig—a semi and

trailer—but in order to make the payments, he had to keep the truck on
the road, so that’s where he was living, on the road. Until his wife got
sick and the doctor she consulted (she had consulted a doctor) put her
on bed rest. Tony called Shawn and asked if he could run the rig for a
week or two.

Shawn hated trucking long-haul, but he said he’d do it if I came
along. Dad didn’t need me in the junkyard, and Randy could spare me
for a few days, so we set off, heading down to Las Vegas, then east to
Albuquerque, west to Los Angeles, then up to Washington State. I’d
thought I would see the cities, but mostly I saw truck stops and
interstate. The windshield was enormous and elevated like a cockpit,
which made the cars below seem like toys. The sleeper cab, where the
bunks were, was musty and dark as a cave, littered with bags of Doritos
and trail mix.

Shawn drove for days with little sleep, navigating our fifty-foot
trailer as if it were his own arm. He doctored the books whenever we
crossed a checkpoint, to make it seem he was getting more sleep than
he was. Every other day we stopped to shower and eat a meal that
wasn’t dried fruit and granola.

Near Albuquerque, the Walmart warehouse was backed up and
couldn’t unload us for two days. We were outside the city—there was
nothing but a truck stop and red sand stretching out in all directions—
so we ate Cheetos and played Mario Kart in the sleeper. By sunset on
the second day, our bodies ached from sitting, and Shawn said he
should teach me martial arts. We had our first lesson at dusk in the
parking lot.

“If you know    what    you’re  doing,” he  said,   “you    can incapacitate    a