I’m driving around central Ohio in my dad’s ’07 Chevy listening to the CDs of my youth. I’m not sure how I got here. OK, that’s a lie. I know exactly how I got here. I can trace the miles this Trailblazer has traveled, all the state lines it’s crossed. What I mean is I don’t know how I got to this place, so much like the one I came from, the kind of place to which I once swore I’d never return.
The ’07 Chevy is named Betsy, or Bets for short. She’s got some rust on her body, and her electronics are starting to fail. She’s just shy of three hundred thousand miles. My dad sold her to me for a dollar, and we thought she’d last me a year, but she’ll end up lasting three.
