Inside, the Airstream is sun-cooked and stale. I drop my Stetson on the kitchenette next to an ashtray and a burnt-out joint then turn on the old radio. John Denver croons softly from the speakers. I pull open one of the tattered flowered curtains to let in the sunshine, and a moth escapes. It’s dusty and threadbare, but I like my trailer. My brothers give me shit for living like a hobo. I got it at an auction for cheap. With the rodeo, I was always on the go, so something temporary made sense. Although with the school being open, maybe it’s time I rethink taking Ford up on his offer to move
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