The windshield wipers swept left and right in a steady, metronome-like beat, clearing away the fine spray thrown up by the long-haul freight trucks carrying timber down the valley.

At three forty in the morning, I took an exit ramp near Eugene and pulled into a brightly lit twenty-four-hour gas station.

I parked next to the air pump, stepped into the warm concrete building, and poured a large paper cup of black coffee from the metal urn.

The night cashier didn’t look up from his magazine as I laid two crisp one-dollar bills on the counter.

I walked back out into the freezing night air and leaned against the side of my car, resting the paper cup on the cold metal roof as I watched the fog roll over the highway divider.