I made it—
          to Fort Worth.

Dinner with friends.

Dry clothes…
            eventually.

The kind of Friday
    that can call itself excellent
     only after the road stops trying
      to eat everybody.

From Mississippi
     through Texas,
     all the way
     until I hit I-35
     in Fort Worth,

     it was water
                 on water
                         on water.

Not rain.

Maelstrom.

The kind that makes lesser vehicles
    start negotiating with physics
    and lose half the argument.

People pulling over.

People hydroplaning.

Hazards blinking
        like little prayers
             on the shoulder.

And Nero,
    six thousand pounds
    of purple confidence,
    doing

    _exactly_

    what he was built to do.

Not showing off.

Not exactly.

Okay,
     maybe a little.

But mostly…
           just working.

Staying planted.

Finding the road
        under all that sky
              falling apart.

Carrying me and Orca
         through the part of the map
         where everything else

         looked like it wanted to quit.

I love the rain.

This is established.

Mojave kid.

Vallarta years.

Some people see
     a deluge
     and think:

     disaster.

I see one
     and some old part of me
     still thinks:

     finally.

Orca does not share
     this theological position.

The first big storm hit
    and I bought her a raincoat.

Practical.

Responsible.

Necessary.

Deeply offensive
       to her personal brand.

“Undignified”
             does not begin to describe
                         the look I got.

But hundreds of miles with wet dog
                is not a democracy.

So the raincoat stayed.

The judgment stayed too.

Then—
     somewhere between Jackson and Vicksburg,

     the day decided Nero needed a side quest.

An F-150 in a ditch.

Custom 4x4.

Not custom enough,
       apparently.

The kind of scene
    where everybody has an opinion,
    nobody has traction,

    rain keeps adding notes
    no one fucking asked for.

Nero was in a hurry.

Forty-two minutes.

That’s all it took
       to get the truck
       back on the almost-road.

Forty-two minutes
           of mud,
            winch,
           straps,
          weather,
       horsepower,
       and a Jeep…
  _very_ politely—

   explaining the chain of command.

Orca,
     of course,
     handled spectators.

Tiny wet ambassador.

Raincoat shame
         converted into public relations.

People watching the rescue, (times two)
       Orca watching the people,
       Nero pulling…

       like this was on the calendar all along.

Then back on the almost-road.

Back into the water.

Back through a day that kept asking
     whether we’re sure about all this.

Nero was sure.

I was sure enough.

Orca had notes.

And the whole time,
         you and I
   stayed threaded.

Message after message.

Flight report.

Storm report.

Soccer report.

Nero report,
     obviously,
     because the man
     earned his mentions.

You were carrying your own weather
                          up north,
      and I wasn’t going to ask it
         to perform for the thread.

Some grief
     doesn’t need
     commentary
     to count.

Some quiet
     is the detail.

So we let what could move
              keep moving.

Rain.

Texts.

Nero.

All of it flexing
   in its own way.

And by the time I got to Fort Worth,
    by the time the sky finally
    stopped throwing itself
    at the windshield,

    I had a day I could call excellent
    without pretending it had been easy.

Nero got to flex.

Orca got to judge.

The rain got to be rain.

And you,
    even from there,
    even inside your own hard thing,
    were still riding shotgun…

    in the only way the day allowed.