At forty-three, Dan Miller had seen worse weather and worse luck. He drove for Hawthorne Logistics, a company that paid on time. The nature of his job also meant colleagues rarely asked him too many personal questions. It was reliable work, quiet nights, and the kind of money that kept overdue rent off his back. That was enough.
He hadn’t always been behind the wheel. He used to fix engines. Back in the day, he owned a little garage until the bills won. Divorce came next, and suddenly the road felt easier than people did. Now, he preferred solitude, long nights, and the rhythm of tires over the sound of voices.