The highway was different than Linnie remembered, widened and resurfaced, the northbound and southbound lanes split by a neatly mowed drainage ditch. Five years back, if her father would have leaned across the console of the U-Haul and predicted it would look like this, she would have thought: dementia. Then, the highway had been shelled with jilted fenders and bottles of urine, relics of the Escape. Now, it looked as if the roadworkers had chiseled through the broken cement and struck granite.
