Bunking in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler is a little like sleeping inside a refrigerator, which is, of course, close to what you are doing. The reefer unit behind you blasts air at thirty-four degrees to keep the carcasses or broccoli cold. There is a perpetual hum from the motor, and you are living inside the rumble on a bunk shelf, not unlike a condiment, up there next to the eggs.
