The old Ford coughed twice before turning over. The dashboard rattled like it always did, and the heater made that faint ticking noise that meant it might work eventually, or it might not. Either way, he didn't much care.
He lit a Viceroy and watched the smoke curl toward the cracked windshield.
Then he reached over and pulled the pint of Crown Royal from the passenger seat. The bag it came in had long since been lost. He took a short pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Six hundred miles.
That’s what the note had said.
He shifted into gear and pulled onto the road.
Black Velvet was for sissies.
That’s what his old man used to say. Unless you were Mexican. Or Elvis.
He smiled faintly at the memory. His old man had been full of sayings like that. Half of them didn’t make much sense, but they stuck with you anyway.
The bench seat was cracked Naugahyde, split down the middle like an old scar. The foam pushed out in yellow lumps. He shifted his weight and the springs squeaked under him.
He didn’t turn on the radio right away.
The road stretched flat and gray ahead of him. Dead cornfields sat to his right, brittle stalks bending in the wind like old bones.
After a while, he reached forward and shoved the 8-track in.
Red Sovine.
"Giddy-Up Go."
He hadn’t heard that one in years.
Six hundred miles.
He rolled the words around in his head.
Six hundred miles to settle something.
Six hundred miles to make it right.
Nothing's ever free. There always a tax to be paid.
He took another drag off the Viceroy and cracked the window. Cold air rushed in. It smelled like dirt and distant snow.
The sun came up slow and pale, turning the fields into washed-out gold.
He thought about her.
He tried not to, but there it was.
The way she laughed when she didn’t think anyone was listening.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
The way she always smelled faintly like laundry soap.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He saw it again.
The driveway.
The dust.
The other man laughing.
Driving away.
Taking the one damned thing he cared about.
He stopped once for gas.
The attendant didn’t say much. Just nodded and filled the tank. The man paid in cash and bought another pack of Viceroys.
Back on the road.
The miles slid by.
The 8-track clicked.
Red Sovine again.
By late afternoon, he crossed the county line.
He knew the road.
He’d been there before.
A gravel driveway.
A sagging barn.
A rusted mailbox leaning sideways.
He pulled in slow.
The engine idled.
He could see the other man standing near the truck. Smoking. Looking tired. Like he hadn’t slept well in a while.
The man stepped forward.
Recognition came slow.
Then the smile.
That same damned smile.
He stepped out of the Ford.
No words.
No shouting.
Just the wind moving through the dead grass.
He took another drag off the Viceroy.
Dropped it.
Ground it under his boot.
The other man started to say something.
He never got to finish.
The shot sounded smaller than he expected.
The man fell backward into the dirt.
He stood there for a moment.
Then he got back in the Ford.
Drove to the river.
The water moved slow and brown beneath the bridge.
He tossed the gun first.
Then the keys.
They disappeared without a sound.
He left the Ford where it was.
He started walking.
No one passed.
No one stopped.
The sun was going down now, turning everything copper and gray.
Six hundred miles behind him.
Nothing ahead but road.
He lit another Viceroy and kept walking.
copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger
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