Jack fancied nature and roads, and lit his house on fire. He torched the carpet late one night and stood outside, thinking of the way the flame reflected in his eyes. He thought he heard a shutter snap somewhere and reminded himself to pick up the paper soon.

As he walked away, he reflected that he should have brought a coat. He drew his jacket closer around his body.

He slept in his car that night. In the morning, he admired his stubble in the rearview mirror, and wished he had brought a razor so that he could keep it at this length. When hunger set in, he thought about charred peanut butter and bread rendered ash.

Jack decided that the reason for his displeasure was his stalling, and decided to head out on his American journey. He drove for days, eating at truck stops and sneering at recognizable names. He brought a moleskine notebook and a pen to keep his diary; he filled it with lists of things he forgot. Hat, umbrella, phonebook; things now burned.

He kept traveling, but the list never got shorter.