That made Goose smile. He kissed me, and said, “Let’s get on the road again.” Then, he sang it.
We would arrive in Cocke County on October thirtieth, to attend a ceremony during which a tombstone for Daniel Porter, Jr, one declaring him a soldier lost in battle, would be placed in the cemetery, there beside the one marked “Unknown.” The night before that, we slept out in a tent at the same spot we had during our first journey together a year ago. We grilled on the fire—veggie hotdogs, this time, in deference to Toto—and Goose did a sketch of the four of us, while I did one for him.
“So many hearts.”
Each one had our initials.
“One for each day we’ve known each other,” I explained. “Some look like our love camel pancake.”
“A little.”
“It’s not easy to draw three hundred and sixty-seve
