So here I am, listening to the sound of Dad’s truck fading away as he leaves. I’ve got Davey Beet’s hat on my head and my old blanket too, though his mom remade the top of his hat and gave it back to me and insisted on washing the mold out of my meth blanket. They’re my same old things, just better versions for this part of the trip, and I guess that only makes sense, since it’s true of me too.
