Steeped in the morning sun, the Texas dirt flares rust-red. Jim’s eyes trace the dusty paths that snake between the sage of his xeriscaped yard. Echoes of his family’s goodbyes still burn his ears as he tears his gaze from the house and briefly closes his eyes, repeating his mantra: Back in nine days. I’ll be back in nine days.

He set a hard deadline for departure. Nine o’clock. He spent yesterday night ignoring his open suitcase and barely left himself time in the morning to pack and shower. He skipped breakfast; he’d eat on the road.

From the seat of his Crosstrek--a hybrid; Pam had insisted--Jim glances at his luggage in the backseat. Cece’s softball equipment still clutters the trunk, and he didn't save enough time to unload it. Her first season ended a month ago, and Cece’s flighty eight-year-old attention had already shifted to other pastimes. Jim could remember her first hit. The elated shock on her face as she stood at home plate, bat still in hand, watching the ball dribble past the shortstop. From the dugout, he tried to coach her as he coached all first-time hitters, smiling and waving her to first, shouting, “Run! Run! Run to first, Cece! Run to first! You got it!”

He smiles now, shaking his head at the memory but letting it linger before refocusing himself to review his travel checklist. He taps the steering wheel as he mentally checks off each essential--toothbrush, razor, socks--until he assures himself that he has everything. That he didn't forget anything.

Jim leans sideways, past a soft cooler of road snacks, and opens the glove compartment. His fingers instantly find a small piece of coal that Pam gave to him shortly after their arrival in Austin.

“To remind you of home,” she said before his first road trip from Texas--a jaunt to Kansas City to meet with Mike Moustakas.

“But we don’t live in Scranton anymore.”

“Well, I figured this was more compact than steer horns. You know, easier to fit in the car.”

Over time, it came to remind him of their life--their slow start, their joys, their struggles.

Jim stares down at the rock for a moment, then closes his hand around it, feeling its hard edges press into his palm. Dipping his head, he closes his eyes and touches his fist to his chest, drawing a deep breath--once, twice--before stowing his coal back in the compartment.

Slipping on his sunglasses, he faces the day, gives life to the engine, and starts down the road.