Whiny old tires glue the sleepy truck driver to the road. In the hotel, there is a broken air conditioner wheezing and hacking away. The TV is playing a show about bird fossils. At the broken-wheel truck stop where he goes, a chapped-lip lady with tightly permed eyes comes to greet his truck, roller-skating out into the parking lot. Chips and huge chicken legs grind up in his broken-toothed mouth. The waitress collects bones. Last night, he dreamed he saw farmhouse lights—he dreamed it was Christmas Eve at his old place. He dreamed of his pregnant wife eating plum pudding by the yule log. That was many years ago, and nothing is real to him anymore. Nothing matters. He robs the rulebooks in the Berkshires. He gets out of his truck and cries into the snowfall. The lazy moon above him is tiny silver, like an embryo. For a while, there is no world. Just a crying truck driver, the moon, and snow.