Stargrace liked night runs. Less traffic, fewer opinions, and the road mostly kept its mouth shut.
She rolled out of Elko with a trailer full of soybeans, the smell faint but unmistakable—earthy, dusty. Ranch delivery up in Logan. Easy money. Short hop. Barely enough time for the coffee to turn against her.
The highway at night was just lines and headlights, the world reduced to what mattered: speed, distance, and whether the engine sounded wrong or just dramatic. The desert slipped by unseen, which was fine by her. She’d already looked at it plenty over the years. Didn’t need a reminder.
She clicked on the radio mic out of habit more than need.
“Melanie Q, you still awake out there, or did Wyoming finally hypnotize you?”
A beat of static, then Melanie’s voice came through, cheerful in that unkillable way.
“Awake and thriving, boss. LoneStar’s purring. I’m haulin’ clamshell buckets.”
Stargrace snorted.
“Buckets for clams that don’t exist. Living the dream.”
“Hey,” Melanie said, mock-offended, “someone’s gotta move the world’s most confusing cargo.”
“Fair,” Stargrace replied. “If the economy collapses, it’ll be because of clamshell buckets.”
They checked routes, traded a few miles and complaints, then signed off.
Logan came up quick. Ranch lights glowing low and warm, the kind of place where the animals knew more about you than the people did. The soybeans were unloaded without fuss—no drama, no broken pallets, no one asking dumb questions. A flawless delivery, which always felt suspicious.
Didn’t take long before she had another trailer hooked up. Short trip, quick turnaround. Wyoming this time. The sign might as well have read You’re Still Awake? Good.
She crossed the line with a yawn and a crooked smile, the engine humming steady beneath her boots. Another night, another stretch of asphalt claimed and conquered.
Stargrace adjusted her grip on the wheel.
“Alright,” she muttered to the truck. “Let’s go disappoint another state.”
And the road, as always, welcomed her back.
A Pixel Nomad 