He grips the wheel like a forgotten god, Frost clinging to his jacket, A highway ghost carved from chrome and bone. The sign screams “66” in fading green, A number older than he is, But just as tired. His eyes, hidden behind broken glass, Search for something— A road, an end, a reason to stop. The snow swirls like static, Muffling the engine’s last roar. But there’s no turning back. Only forward, Into the blur. Into the freeze. Where men like him become stories.