Fifteen

The truck radio gets horrible reception out here. He usually just hangs his arm out of the window and taps the outside of the door with his fingertips, a beat of his own making. After only a few self-composed tunes, the city lights fade. If the clouds weren't so oppressive, he could see every star. Maybe mortals aren't meant for such things as they willed.

A half-worn sign tells him the next town is thirty-seven miles. Maybe they have all the stars.