The map fluttered out the window somewhere past Abilene.

Didn’t matter. She wasn’t following it anyway.

The rearview showed her wedding dress. Crumpled the backseat. Like shed snake skin. 

The radio crackled. Maybe dead. Maybe searching for a signal.

Dust rose behind her, thick as memory.

He always said she’d never make it past county lines.

She passed the sign an hour ago.

Now it’s just sky, sun, and the sound of tires carving freedom into the road.

She found a station. Sang along to “On The Road Again.”

Smiled.

And didn’t look back.