The tires were droning on the highway, trees and houses whished by creating a smeared mural. Distant music simmered in Elly’s head and a smile creased her mouth. Sun rays blanketed the back seat, accompanied by dancing shades. “How long till we get there, daddy?” “Oh, I would say another fifteen minutes, sweetheart.” “Okay. I love going to the lake.” Elly’s smile widened, her 8-year-old body bouncing in the backseat in anticipation. Every year Elly and her parents took this same vacation. They rented the same cabin, engulfed themselves in the same activities, and swam most of the daylight hours. There has never been a more happy memory. The sun, the warmth, the family; nothing came close. The music returned, how could it ever leave, but it was soothing; happy. Her father was a carpenter by day and musician by night. Throughout their home there were built-in speakers in the ceilings, inside closets, bathrooms, and also rounding the outside of their home, persistently drumming the sweat sound of blues. And now, as they steadily made their way to the happiest times of her childhood, the blues still penetrated her ears being so far away from home. This was home, and home is not so far away after all. Elly shifted uncomfortably in her seat, kicked something on the floor of the car, and inspected further. The object was a guitar case; her father’s beloved guitar. Some days she had wondered if her father loved that guitar more than her mother, or even her. But, he loved music, and he loved his guitar, just like he loved his family so dearly. She quietly unsnapped the case and opened it. Elly ran her hand over the glistening wood casing in complete awe. There, near the bottom was a signature. “It says B.B. King,” Elly’s father said. She snapped up, sheepish frown of guilt splayed her face, and shut the case. “Who’s B.B. King?” “Oh, just the best damn blues artist in the world.” Her mother shot her father a disapproving look. “Darn, best darn blues artist.” Her father was watching her through the rear view mirror and said, “You know, your mother and I met at one of his world tours. I spotted her a mile away and…” “Daddy!” Jerry shifted to third gear feeling his trailer swaying. His radio crackled rock of the eighties through outworn speakers. The cab of his tractor trailer shown of days, even weeks of solitude; fast-food wrappers scattered the floor, empty cigarette packs were strewn about on the passenger seat, an inch of dust and grime caked on the console, and all of which matched his battered jeans and filthy white t-shirt. “J-man, what’s your 20?” Jerry struggled the uneven terrain, the road curved in and out of a forest, and he snagged the mic of his CB radio. “About 15 minutes. This hell of a road is putting a hurt on the ol’ gears,” Jerry said. He was trucking a couple tons of lumber for Shutter Home Building; yet another housing development sprouting out of nowhere and another twenty years of oxygen stolen from the earth. I hope the law holds out here of planting a new tree for each one uprooted, Jerry thought. But, that was none of his business. Getting the lumber on time was his business, and currently he was failing miserably. “Just get your ass here with that lumber. They were supposed to be building forty-five minutes ago!” “Ten-four.” Jerry hung the mic on its holster and continued on, or so he thought. Just under the solidifying sound of Journey, he heard the thump and grumble of the hand mic rolling under his feet. “Shit.” For one split second he took his eyes of the road, clambered for it, and snagged it with his right hand. As he replaced it securely on its holster, his sight caught a vehicle as he barreled on into the opposite-bound lane.