Arizona, California

I'm counting down the states. Every time we cross a new border, another tally mark on my wrist. We've been traveling for days now. 27 states down, 23 to go.

I've always loved to travel, always wanted to, and this trip is something that's been on my bucket list for years. Now, I'm finally doing it. All 50 states in one go. We started in Maine, went down, down through Virginia, through Florida, and then West to Louisiana, and up and down and back and forth to Arizona. There isn't much out here. A couple of shrubs by the side of the road and a little convenience store every once in a while and constant mile markers and signs that advertise just how much better California is and how it's only a couple of miles away, so keep driving, folks, and... well, there's sand. A lot of sand.

There isn't anyone out here. It isn't a surprise. We're practically in the middle of nowhere, my husband driving with me in the passenger seat, staring out the window. We're all alone out here, and actually, I'm enjoying it. There's something surreal about it all. The beautiful landscape, the emptiness, the rough, warm air, the silence, and yes, just how alone we really are. But then we see him. A man, standing still, by the side of the road. As we get closer, as we can see him better, my husband points, his outstretched finger singling out the figure, and though he doesn't say a word, I nod, because the man's thumb is out. He's looking for a ride, and my husband is inclined to give it. I nod, and then my husband is slowing the car and letting the man in. We're silent as he climbs into the backseat, and the door is closing again and we're on our way, and then, then, just as I make the mark on my wrist, just as we cross into California, we see that he has a gun.

I'm counting down the states. Every time we cross a new border, another tally mark on my wrist. We've been traveling for days now. 28 states down, 23 to go.

We're in Arizona now, about to cross into California. There isn't much out here. It isn't a surprise. We're practically in the middle of nowhere, my husband driving with me in the passenger seat, staring out the window. We're all alone out here, and actually, I'm enjoying it. But then we see him. We're silent as he climbs into the backseat, and the door is closing again and we're on our way, and then, then, just as we cross into California, we see that he has a gun.

I'm counting down the states. Every time we cross a new border, another tally mark on my wrist. We've been traveling for days now. 29 states down, 23 to go.

We're in Arizona now, and we're about to cross into California. I'm sitting in the passenger seat, staring out into the emptiness, thinking. Thinking that things have been... strange lately. But it doesn't matter, really, because my husband is slowing the car, and a hitchhiker's climbing in, and just as I do the math, we see that he has a gun. 29 and 23 don't make 50.

I'm counting down the states. Every time we cross a new border, another tally mark on my wrist. We've been traveling for days now. 30 states down, 23 to go.

We're passing into California right now. Arizona, California. Again and Again. The man in the back seat has his gun to my head, and my husband's slumped over against the steering wheel, and the car is swerving off the side of the road, and I find that I'm quite looking forward to California, because someday, I suppose, we'll get there. I hear that the beaches are quite nice this time of year.