The Rogue ·

A storm warning crackled on the radio. I tried to listen, but it cut in and out of white noise. I slammed my hand on the dash. It didn’t help – the speakers were shot. The Rogue, my faithful highway companion, was beat. Not even five-years old, the car had mileage. I let the static be. I didn’t need a warning. I could see the dark clouds on the Kansas horizon. ‘The Wraith,’ ‘Blue Bullet,’ ‘Teardrop,’ – names my high school friends gave it. Nothing stuck quite like ‘The Rogue.’