Dry grass falls down the hill like an old man’s whiskers sticking out every which-way; I’m driving on the road where fog roosts in branches until it warms up later in the day. It cradles in a nest of doug fir trees. The road looks like make believe. I’m unable to believe my eyes. Behind me, I hear the whine of big rigs delivering dead trunks to the pulp mill in Washington state. Not going that way, my hands pasted to the wheel, switch-backs filled with pine needles and dried brown ferns, stacks of wood and junked trailers. GPS has quit on me. If I don’t get there soon, everything will turn into shit. My son is without a car and I’m giving him a lift. I check the time and it’s already late; there’s been a mistake. Weigh my options, wonder if I should turn around and go to the gas station with a barking dog. Check the time. It begins to rain and the wipers turn on as if by magic. I say why, oh why. I want to find a house with a yellow roof. Down the road, I see a sign. I stop but keep going.