Fastened her seat belt.
Started the engine.
For years, every journey had been controlled by somebody else.
Greg chose when she moved.
Where she slept.
When she saw daylight.
When she ate.
What she knew.
Before him, dispatchers had given Joan routes, schedules, delivery windows.
She had loved that life once.
But this morning there was no dispatcher.
No cargo.
No captor.
No destination she was required to reach.
She drove toward the highway.
At the entrance ramp, her hands began shaking.
For a moment she considered turning around.
Then a truck passed on the interstate.
Diesel engine roaring.
The sound hit her hard.
