Provo’s not in Wisconsin or Washington, but that’s where the trucks are: limbo. Abbot and Sweeney chew outside the Flying J.

“Think they’ll sell?” Sweeney takes a pinch of Skoal.

“They’ll sell.” Abbott snorts. “Milwaukee. Watch, they’ll call ’em the Beers.”

Milford’s going over the trailer, pulling padlocks and tucking flaps. He looks back, then eases the handle of the big steel door.

White noise and white leather. Endless grass. Sepia and clean cotton, crack and arc, the sun and the floodlights–

“Quit,” says Abbott sharply. “You’ll let it all out.”

“I was just checking,” says Milford, and slams it shut.