My mother stands by the side of the road with her thumb out while I sit on a green suitcase beneath a shade tree a few feet from the shoulder. Inside my case a marionette I named Pepe’, unwashed jeans, and a worn copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Missing are my security blanket and a pair of tennis shoes left by mistake on the floorboard of our last ride. We are on a highway somewhere between Albuquerque and D.C., maybe the Midwest, maybe even Kansas, I don’t know because the significance of highway numbers is lost on me. I pout because of the blanket that’s lost to that underwater world between sleep and wakefulness and the time between gears and asphalt. Pout because my Paper Moon dream is folded tight within a Samsonite suitcase where it cannot shine.