The coffee was already ready when the sun began to filter through the thick curtains of the camper. Its smell—strong and familiar—filled the cabin even before Michael opened his eyes. He didn’t use an alarm clock. For years now, his body had decided on its own when it was time to get up. That morning, like many others, it was still dark when he sat on the edge of the bed, in silence, listening to the nothing.
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The parking lot was that of an old abandoned gas station just outside Santa Fe. A faded tin sign swayed in the weak wind, creaking softly. No one had passed by during the night. No drifters, no suspicious noises, no flashing lights to disturb the peace. A silent night. A good night.
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Michael poured himself a coffee into his favorite mug—the chipped white one with the word California nearly worn off—and sat at the small folding table by the window. He stared outside, eyes still slow, breath steady. The desert air was warming up, but the light was still cold. In the distance, the hills were tinged with blue and orange. No movement. Just world.
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He opened his notebook. It wasn’t a diary, not really. More like a jumbled archive of thoughts, possible titles, song lyrics, schedules, notes. An orderly chaos only he could navigate. He flipped back to the previous day’s page. Three cities circled: Flagstaff, Zion, Page. Then a straight line underneath. And below that, a phrase: If you don’t leave, you find yourself.
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He couldn’t remember if it was a quote or something he’d written himself. But he liked it.
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He had left his family at eighteen, with a backpack and a vague idea of freedom. Not after a fight, not as part of some grand escape. Just because he knew that if he stayed, he’d stop breathing. Since then, he had done a bit of everything: waiting tables, construction, moving jobs. And then music, writing. Freelance by necessity, but also by nature. He couldn’t stay still, nor feel part of anything. But he didn’t complain. That life, even if lived on the margins, was his.
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The camper was his refuge. Not big, but perfect. Inside were him, his guitar, his laptop, a small kitchen where he made Italian dishes—the sauce with dried basil he brought from home, good pasta from the best-stocked markets—and a small but convenient bathroom. He had learned to live well in little space. It made him feel safe. From the outside, he looked like a man on a journey. From the inside, he felt like a spectator with a window on the world.
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He played an old MP3. An acoustic album—slow guitars, a hoarse voice. Real folk. He liked starting his day with that music on. No rush, no anxiety. Just the road, and the sound of tires on asphalt.
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He checked the water tank, tightened the bottle caps, closed the drawers. Simple but vital rituals. A way of telling himself everything was under control. The chaos outside couldn’t get in. At least not yet.
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He washed his face in the narrow sink, ran his fingers through his hair, then opened the camper door and breathed in the morning air. It was dry, clean, with a dusty aftertaste. He lit a cigarette and sat on the camper’s steps. Watching the empty road. In that moment, he thought, everything was perfect.
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But even in perfection, there’s always something off. A distant sound, a strange smell, a shadow moving just beyond the sunlight. Michael wasn’t paranoid. But he observed. Always. And lately, he had been noticing things. Subtle things. People with empty stares. Children too quiet. Songs on the radio with lyrics he didn’t recognize, even though they were “classic hits.” Nothing huge. Just an underlying dissonance. Like the world had lost its tuning.
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He stubbed out the cigarette in the sand, climbed back in, shut the door. Sat in the driver’s seat. The keys were already in the ignition. The camper started on the first try. That hum always gave him a sense of security. It was like confirmation: we’re still here.
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The passenger window rattled. A sound he knew well. It had been like that for years, and he’d chosen not to fix it. He liked it. It was like a little bell announcing the beginning of something.
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He drove off slowly. The road stretched ahead of him, smooth and silent. No specific destination. Just a vague idea: west, maybe north, then who knows. The GPS was off. He didn’t need it. Follow the sun, listen to his gut, stop when the landscape spoke to him. It had always been like that.
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As he drove, he recalled a phrase he’d read some time ago: The world never stops falling, it just changes how it does it. He hadn’t understood it then. Now it felt perfect.
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Behind him, the desert returned to silence. Ahead, the asphalt shimmered just slightly under the rising sun. Michael put his hand out the window, felt the warm air brush his fingers.
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He was on the road again.
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And somewhere, the world was beginning to crumble.
But not yet.
Not here.
Not today.
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