The Rig in the Mirror Had No Trailer

I have driven nights for nineteen years because I like the empty roads and the radio and being left alone. That preference took a hit on a stretch of interstate through the flatlands, the kind of road where you can see another vehicle's lights for ten minutes before it reaches you.

Around 3 a.m. a set of headlights appeared in my mirror and settled about two hundred metres back. Nothing strange yet — trucks pace each other on long hauls, it's almost companionable. Except this one matched me exactly. I run at a steady speed on cruise; I nudged it up five, the lights closed to two hundred metres and held. I dropped ten to let it pass; it dropped ten and held. Twenty miles of this. No CB response — I hailed the standard channels, nothing. No overtaking, no falling back. Just paced, headlights high and unwavering, in a way headlights on an uneven road do not stay unwavering.

Twenty miles is a long time to be quietly unsettled, and I don't unsettle. I decided to end it by pulling into a rest area, letting whatever weirdo it was blow past.