Chap­ter 230 begins on a swel­ter­ing morn­ing in Union City, with the ris­ing sun cast­ing long shad­ows over the bay­ou. The pro­tag­o­nist begins his day qui­et­ly, step­ping into the ear­ly light while the town still slum­bers. Along the banks of a still lake, wil­low trees droop heav­i­ly, their branch­es soaked and slick with algae, while dead­wood gath­ers at the edges where the water kiss­es the sand­bars. Dis­tant cypress trees loom with a qui­et majesty, cre­at­ing a frame around the slow-mov­ing waters. The atmos­phere is heavy, thick with humid­i­ty and a sense of still­ness that press­es down on every­thing. These ear­ly sights calm him, even as his thoughts churn rest­less­ly beneath the sur­face. He watch­es as drag­on­flies skim across the sur­face, their wings glint­ing like shards of glass, and for a moment, time stretch­es. Despite the ten­sion in his jour­ney, he takes solace in these small details—pieces of the world that seem unchanged.

From Union City, his path leads through a maze of unfa­mil­iar towns, trans­fer­ring between three dif­fer­ent bus­es that move steadi­ly across the state. With his head bent low, he keeps his pro­file hid­den beneath the curve of his cap, avoid­ing eye con­tact and any signs of recog­ni­tion. He doesn’t feel fear, only fatigue—so deep that even the sight of police cruis­ers near­by doesn’t raise his heart­beat. He’s crossed enough bor­ders and dodged enough ques­tions to know when to blend into the noise. On foot again, he walks past shopfronts with­out real­ly see­ing them, let­ting the rhythm of the city streets swal­low him up. Each step is delib­er­ate, cal­cu­lat­ed not just to avoid atten­tion, but to buy him space to think. He enters a qui­et café near a small square, select­ing a cor­ner booth where the air-con­di­tion­ing bare­ly cuts the heat. There, he sips weak cof­fee and stares out at a worn mon­u­ment erect­ed in mem­o­ry of unnamed Con­fed­er­ate sol­diers, wondering—briefly—what lega­cy his own father might have left behind.

The hours pass slow­ly, but he embraces the lull. Beneath the table, he fin­gers a fold­ed piece of paper, on which he’s care­ful­ly mapped the next leg of his jour­ney. Noth­ing is writ­ten hasti­ly; every­thing has been planned to the minute. The route is indi­rect by design, meant to con­fuse any­one track­ing his move­ments or piec­ing togeth­er where he might be head­ed. He’s set to board a morn­ing bus at exact­ly 8:30 a.m., one that will cir­cle back through Evansville—an unre­mark­able stop that masks his true intent. He knows the wait­ing game well. From there, a long lay­over stretch­es before him, over five hours of watch­ing clocks and keep­ing his back to the wall. Then comes the real leg of the trip: Bus 1167, a night bus with cracked leather seats and dim lights, its pas­sen­gers most­ly silent.

That ride will car­ry him through the dark, cross­ing unseen coun­ty lines while most of the world sleeps. Some­where beyond the hum of the engine and the rus­tle of news­pa­pers, he’ll think about the path that brought him here. Maybe he’ll won­der if this jour­ney is escape or penance. The des­ti­na­tion isn’t just geographical—it’s emo­tion­al, spir­i­tu­al. Every mile between him and the past feels both redemp­tive and hol­low. He has no illu­sions about what waits in Alaba­ma, but he still press­es for­ward, dri­ven by some­thing he doesn’t ful­ly under­stand. Maybe it’s the mem­o­ry of some­one lost. Maybe it’s the hope of find­ing some­one still out there. Or maybe it’s just the sound of his own name, called out soft­ly in his mind.

As the bus rum­bles toward morn­ing, he’ll even­tu­al­ly step out into the pre-dawn qui­et of a new place. The air in Alaba­ma will be warm, but not yet heavy, the way south­ern nights give way to frag­ile sun­ris­es. He plans to arrive just as the birds begin their chorus—the car­di­nals, always the first to sing. That detail mat­ters to him. It’s not super­sti­tion, exact­ly, but a mark­er, like a sign­post that tells him he’s come far enough to begin again. The sky will be pur­ple and gold, and the towns will still sleep. His feet will touch unfa­mil­iar pave­ment, but some­thing in him will set­tle. In this moment, he’s not just cross­ing state lines. He’s cross­ing into some­thing that resem­bles hope.