The walk was an agonizing crawl through thick, hot air. When I finally pushed open the door, a weak bell jingled. The woman behind the counter had tired eyes and a hairstyle that had given up years ago. “Need a room?” she asked, her tone flat. I pushed my few remaining bills across the counter. It was enough for one night.

My room was small and sparse, a sanctuary from the brutal sun but not from my crushing despair. The memory of Khloe’s cruel laughter and Brenda’s icy voice played on a loop in my mind. They wanted me to suffer. And here, in the Starlight Motel with its flickering sign and stale air, I was. The long, hard road ahead stretched out before me, as vast and unforgiving as the desert outside.

I couldn’t just sit there and waste away. The next morning, fueled by a flicker of defiance, I pulled out my dog-eared road atlas. The number—490 km—mocked me from the page. I needed food, but more importantly, I needed a plan.