The search lost momentum the way searches do. The volunteers went home. The file moved into a drawer. The news cycle turned to something else. Margaret drove Route 9 one more time, on the first anniversary, because she thought she needed to — and couldn’t breathe from the moment she saw the first exit sign until she had driven twenty miles past it and pulled over to put her hands on her knees in a gas station parking lot.
After that, she found another way to get everywhere she needed to go.
For twenty years, she found another way.
What Happened Last Tuesday, and Why She Didn’t Turn Around When She Saw the Sign
Last Tuesday, her GPS rerouted her around a highway accident.
She followed it without paying close attention until she saw the sign.
Route 9.
Her hands went slick on the wheel. She knew
the road the way you know something that marked you — not from conscious memory but from the body, from some deeper accounting that doesn’t go away when you decide to stop thinking about it.
