The sun rose, pale pink and yellow bled across the sky, like water colors. Time to leave.

“Vince, c’mon. Time to move on.” I kicked him lightly, and ripped the backpack/pillow out from under his head. He mumbled, and slowly pulled himself out of the sleeping bag, and into an upright position.

I was already packing up. The mountains in the distance seemed just as far as they had for the last hundred miles. Days. Weeks. The adjacent highway was silent and empty,  but that meant little in the Utah Rockies. Cars whipped along these highways as fast and sudden as a startled deer. No time to get chummy with one dirt lot or the other.

He pulled of his heavy parka, and shoved it into his pack.

Putting the finishing touches on our disappearing act, we scattered the ashes from our fire into the road, scanning to make sure nothing would make an obvious trail of our time spent here, trash or otherwise.

This is how you live, if you’re a runner. Like me and Vince. We hopped through our windows in the dead of night, and never looked back. An anger from within, something that pushed us forward, the desire to break our invisible bonds. Because, when you are runaway, you need something to push you forward, anything to prove something. No matter what that something is, because when you have nothing besides your running route, you clutch onto the very dream of something.

Maybe there is a good part to this. I don’t know. Don’t know if that something is enough to make up for the blood, the tears, the hunger and the lonely presence of the open road.

At least your never the last one to be free.