4.1.2 Road Trip 2021 -

They opened the urn. The ashes were gray and fine, like powdered stone. Maya tipped it, and a stream of him drifted into the wind, catching the last light, swirling around the Joshua tree like a ghost.

At miles, the first sign appeared. It wasn’t a billboard or a highway marker. It was a coyote. It stood perfectly still in the middle of the two-lane blacktop, its ears swiveled forward, yellow eyes fixed on the windshield. Leo slammed the brakes. The Subaru shuddered to a halt ten feet away. 4.1.2 road trip

“Move,” Leo whispered.

“Dad said to drive until the tank is empty,” she said. “Literally and metaphorically.” They opened the urn

Leo laughed first. It was a wet, ragged sound that turned into a sob. Then Maya laughed, a bright, clear note that echoed off the canyon walls. It sounded exactly like the photograph. At miles, the first sign appeared

“Leo & Maya. You made it. You’re not lost. You never were. Scatter me here. Then go home and fight about something stupid. Just don’t stop talking. — Dad.”