The truck bumped along the interstate highway. Despite our best efforts, we weren’t ready to go until mid-morning and hit the lunchtime rush in St. Louis. Now we were dodging small towns in the hinterlands of western Missouri, and I doubted we’d reach the Kansas border by nightfall.
From my spot on the passenger side—I had let Rick take a turn driving my truck—I leaned against the door and regarded the cab. Sharing the bench seat with Rick and me, Brandy and Mikey, strapped into the same seatbelt, leaned over a picture book. Roscoe curled up on the floor, his head on my knee. I rubbed his ears as he slobbered on my leg. It was a tight fit, but we made it work.
“How much farther do you think we’ll get today?” I asked Rick quietly, pulling a map out of the bag below the children’s feet and
