Three hundred and thirty four miles along Florida's I-75, I became aware of my eyelids. The teeny mustached Italianos I had bribed to prop them up had gone on espresso break. Stupid Italians. I was just one day into the road trip but my lids were too heavy to stay up, and so down they rolled, like shades at night, half obscuring the highway. I blinked a few times, then opened them wide. That not helping, I pinched my arm to stay awake.
The road from Ocala to Gainesville was long, the night was dark, and the wind rustled the palm trees. But I had another 110 miles to drive before crawling into Best Western's lumpy bed.
So I followed the neon promise of a nearby McDonald's and put the car into park. I opened the car door, then stiffened. My face felt - cold - and steam followed my words. How could I still be in Florida? Hurrying inside, I bought the largest, blackest coffee. I took a sip. The warmth filled my chest pleasantly, like a hug.
I was going home.