Endless yellow plains stretched away from the cars until the dry prairie grass met with the pale blue void of a sky. The western horizon was home to a faded line of mountains that seemed like a jagged purple wall separating the Midwest from the West. The range was fairly oppressive in its prominence on that flat terrain, like some kind of ancient structure God had built to keep us sheep in one place. A faded asphalt road covered in millions of tar-filled cracks which spider-webbed back and forth as we drove pointed straight at the towering peaks and their snow caps. It was a natural barrier for Kate and I, one we had hoped to cross before hitting any more trouble. We almost did.

Prairie dogs stood up and watched as we pulled over onto the shoulder to the accompaniment of a siren in a cloud of hanging dust.

“License and registration,” the Colorado State Trooper said. His face was robotic and emotionless with a bright red mustache and two mirrored eyes that reflected my own nervous expressions back at me.