What do you think?
Rate this book


304 pages, Hardcover
First published January 16, 2018

A momentary silence was all that marked the passing of summer into winter. After living most of my almost forty years in the high desert of Utah, twenty driving a truck, I had come to the conclusion there were really only two seasons: hot and windy and cold and windy. Everything else was just a variation on the two.
Late in the evening I lay half-awake in my single bed and knew the silence meant the season had changed. I like to think maybe I know a thing or two about silence. Real silence is more than just absence of sound: it is something you feel. A few heartbeats earlier a steady wind scattered the leftover sounds from evening-a car a steady wind scattered the leftover sounds from evening-a car passing, neighbors talking from behind closed doors, somewhere a dog barking-all the usual muffled racket of nearby lives. Then there was nothing, nothing at all, as if the desert and everyone in it had vanished and left nothing behind but an indifferent starless light.

My delivery days were generally spent without the luxury of man-made signs and addresses, no numbers or arrows, or mailboxes, or even fences or mile markers. My customers liked it that way and lived the roadless, dead-end life with a kind of fierce passion for isolation that few would want and even fewer would survive for very long. For the most part their philosophy was "make do or do without", and even some essentials, especially water when and where it was needed, were considered luxuries.
I've come to think that the only thing you can count on with people is that they will always be human - good and bad - usually both, and occasionally at the same time.