and don't forget son, there is someone up above.

"Oh, take your time. Don't live too fast," Lynyrd Skynyrd sang to her life's advice, and she rolled down the window a bit further. "Troubles will come, and they will pass."

"It's not always that easy," she told to no one in particular. Her hair was skirting across her cheeks in strides, and she squinted at the closest green sign. 230 miles to Oakville. Sighing, she brought her left knee up to her chest and then proceeded to stick her leg out the window.

A trucker honked behind her. Oh, go stick it in the nearest rest stop, she thought.

"Forget your lust, for the rich man's gold," Skynyrd serenaded. "All that you need is in your soul."

She thought about the boy she left behind. The one who would read to her late at night, her head in the crook of his arm. The one that told her she was pretty in her gray zip-up and ball cap. She thought about him, and then stared out the window.

There would be no turning around now.

"We're all looking at the same sky," she whispered to herself. "It's not as if I'm leaving everything behind."

She pushed her foot down on the gas and picked up the pace. The lines were dizzying, overwhelming. Mountains smothered the boring landscape of nothingness for miles.

Her cell phone rang, and she glimpsed at it. Bryson.

"Hey," She said into the phone, her leg still dangling out of the window.

"Don't you worry, you'll find yourself," Skynyrd's voice slowly faded as she turned down the volume to hear Bryson's voice. "Follow your heart..."

"Oh, who are you to tell me to follow my heart?" She asked into the receiver.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she muttered. "What are you doing?"

"Calling to figure out when you'll be home, actually. Mom's been trying to get a hold of you all afternoon, wondering what you want for dinner."

Her brother spoke into the phone, but she couldn't hear him. The wind rushed in waves, streams, ripples. It cleared her mind.

"Bryson, I'm not coming home. I'm in Tennessee."

"You're where?" He asked, his voice taking on a higher pitch than usual.

She shut her phone and placed it back in the cup holder. She turned the radio back up. A woman with a twang sang about getting lost in the mountains.

She pulled her leg back in from the wind. She let the truckers pass, honk. She thought about his letters, his rustic smell.

It was roughly 210 miles to Oakville. She had never been to Oakville, but she thought it sounded nice.

"You only get one chance, to live like this," the twangy woman sang.

"Isn't that the truth," she spoke aloud. "Isn't that the truth."