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The horizon in Montana has a way of swallowing you whole if you stare at it too long. My rearview mirror was filled with nothing but the dust of a two-lane highway near Billings, and the heavy diesel thrum of the Freightliner vibrating through my spine. I was twenty years old, driving for Miller Freight, pulling a flatbed loaded with irrigation pipe that needed to get to a farm north of Great Falls by dawn. My hands felt too big for the steering wheel. I kept checking the air pressure gauge, then the tach, then back to the horizon. It was the same rhythm my father had lived by, or so I told myself. The cab smelled of stale coffee, burnt upholstery, and the lingering scent of the menthol cigarettes the last driver had left behind. It was a lonely kingdom, but for the first time, it was mine. I thought about the ranch. I thought about the stack of hay that still needed baling and the way Papa Jay had leaned against the gate when I backed the rig out of the driveway that morning. He hadn't said a word about me leaving. He just watched the duals bite into the gravel, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket. He looked smaller then, the gray in his hair bright against the early morning light. I pushed the throttle down, wanting to outrun the sudden ache in my chest. Driving wasn't like working on a truck in the barn. In the barn, if a bolt stripped, you drilled it out and tapped a new hole. You fixed the problem. On the road, the problems were just miles that never seemed to end. I spent the next three weeks living out of a duffel bag, sleeping in rest stops, and eating food that tasted like plastic wrap. I saw the country through the windshield—wide, indifferent, and beautiful in a way that made you feel like you were trespassing. I started to understand why my father never came home. It wasn't just the work; it was the silence. Once you got used to the hum of the road, the quiet of a house felt like a judgment. When I finally pulled back into the ranch driveway, three days before I was due, the sun was just beginning to bleach the sky. The house looked dark, save for the kitchen light. I killed the engine and the sudden silence hit me harder than the noise had. I walked up the porch steps, my boots echoing on the wood. Papa Jay was sitting at the table with a mug of black coffee, a pile of invoices spread out before him. He didn't look up when I came in. He just pushed a second mug toward the empty chair. You're early, he said. The pipe got delivered, I told him, sitting down. I didn't mention the three near-misses I’d had with fatigue, or the way my hands had shaken when I parked the rig at the depot. I didn't tell him that I’d realized the road was just a long, hollow loop that brought you right back to the same place you started, only more tired. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table. He reached for his tobacco pouch, but his fingers slipped, scattering the loose leaves across the table. He stared at his hand for a long moment, a slow, perplexed look on his face, before he finally curled it into a fist. I reached out to help, but he pulled back, a sudden sharp edge of pride in his gaze. I got it, he muttered. He hadn't been sleeping well. I could hear him pacing in his room at night, a heavy, dragging sound that hadn't been there a month ago. He was fading, bit by piece, and the house felt like it was holding its breath. We sat there in the gray morning, the smell of sagebrush drifting through the open window, neither of us saying what was becoming obvious. The tractor needed an oil change, he said eventually, his voice thin. I nodded. I’ll get to it. He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a second, I saw a flicker of the man who had taught me how to rebuild a carburetor. But then he looked away, out toward the dark fields. It's a long haul, Jake, he said quietly. I didn't know if he meant the trucking or the life we were living. Before I could ask, the phone on the wall screamed. It was four in the morning. Nobody calls a ranch house at four in the morning unless the world has tipped over. I stood up, my heart thumping against my ribs, and stared at the receiver as it rang again, sharp and insistent in the quiet kitchen.