I’m parked at some rest stop... in Nebraska I think. Just got off a shift. Dad's probably asleep in the other bunk already. My grandpa, his dad, they were all truckers. Third generation now. My dad, he always says it with so much pride, you know? "My son, he's a truck driver, just like his lolo." Lolo means grandpa back home... back in the Philippines. It’s supposed to be like... a good thing. A family thing. But sometimes I wonder if it was ever really my thing. Or if I just kinda... fell into it. Like, I remember when I was a kid, everyone just sort of assumed. "Oh, you'll be a driver like your dad!" Never really asked if I WANTED to be one. Just, "this is what we do." And it’s not bad, I guess. The money’s okay. I see a lot of places... even if it's mostly just highways and truck stops. But sometimes I just look out the window, at all these other cars, and wonder what other people are doing. What ELSE there is. You know? My parents, they worked SO hard when they first came here. For us. So I don't want to make them think I'm not grateful. I am, I really am. But it feels like this big... heavy thing. This whole life, already mapped out. And I’m just driving down it. Maybe it’s just me being stupid, being young. But I just keep thinking... is this REALLY it? Or did I just take the path that was easiest... the one that was already paved.