It was late, and he needed to get out from behind the wheel and stretch his legs, maybe re-charge. He wasn't ready to stop yet, even though his watch said it was past 1am. Truth was, he liked this time of day. Night. Whatever. That time between midnight and about 5am. When most people had stopped for the night, or not yet started for the day.

It was the time of wanderers. Of searchers. Of travelers. Of strangers. It was his time.

It was amazing sometimes, how far one could get in a day if they were really determined to do so. But Jarod wasn't driving all night because he was in a hurry. He didn't even really have a destination. He was driving, simply to be able to do so. To see where he'd be when the sun rose.

Tonight, he was in Virginia, on Interstate 81, stopped at one of the travel centers that line the big roads. There were some kids buying snacks and caffinated drinks. They looked tired, but relieved, and happy. And even a bit exhilarated. He'd seen that look before. Mostly around this time.

At this time of night a lot of the people you ran into had been on the road for a while, so they were tired. A lot of times they might have been running low on gas, or not sure where they were, so these centers were a little spot of civilization. A little bit of contact with the world. And the exhilaration, well that was often the fact that when you're traveling so late, the world was gone. Sometimes it was simply to be up so late, when you weren't used to it, with your journey still ahead of you.

He'd seen that look at rest stops too. Once he'd come upon three kids who were on their way from one place to another, who'd actually stopped to camp out in the rest stop building. It was his first encounter with Goths. He hadn't wanted to disturb them, so he went and did some research later that day.

These kids in the travel center however, as he'd learned by eavesdropping, had just come from over the mountains, where they'd been filming a monster movie. He guessed that was what a large part of their exhilaration came from. But he was right about the reason for the relief he saw on their faces. They had indeed been running on fumes.

He caught the title of the movie they were filming and made a mental note to look for it in the future. That would be fun, to watch the movie and see people he'd seen in a gas station on the screen.

“I guess you see all sorts in here on this shift.” he remarked to the night clerk after the kids had left.

The guy chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah. That's the first time I've seen a kid with bits of fake blood on him and smelling like raw hamburger, but yeah. All sorts.”

Jarod had spent a month working the late shift at a gas station once. And found it a bit lonely, so he'd loved when customers came in. Even the creepy ones. He knew that this man before him must wonder about the people who came in. Where they were from. Where they were going. What they were looking for, if even they knew. He knew that's what the man was thinking, because that's what he thought.

“Where you from man?” the clerk asked.

“Oh, all over really.” Jarod said. “But if I had to pick a starting point, I guess I'd say Delaware.”

“Not much there is there?”

“No sales tax.” Jarod reminded him with a smirk. “And the beaches are nice.”

“Been to Virginia beach once or twice.” the clerk said. “You ever been there?”

“I was a tank cleaner at the aquarium once.”

“I bet that was a trip and a half.” the clerk laughed. “You go in the shark tank?”

“Of course, but they're not like they're portrayed in the movies. They never even tried to bite me.”

He paid for his purchases, and turned to leave. “Have a good night. Try not to get too bored waiting for the next wanderers.”

Most of the time, Jarod had a destination when he traveled. A pretend, or a piece of the puzzles to his and Parker's lives. But sometimes he just traveled, to travel. Once he'd thrown a dart at a map, and wound up talking to a young musician in Santa Fe, who, as it turned out, was from New York.

They'd spoken of friends, family, and life in general. The next day he spotted that same musician boarding a bus back to New York.

Another time he'd actually licked his finger, stuck it in the air and went where the wind was blowing. He'd helped a young man going from Boston to California to, as the young man put it “See about a girl”.

Tonight he was just, following his instincts. Driving to drive. Maybe he'd go to Nova Scotia, or board a boat for some distant land. To enjoy the strange freedom he had achieved.

He could go where he wished. He had no concerns about money. If he needed it, he could steal it from the center. Or get any number of jobs. And he lived simply. But he was constantly needing to run. And he was always searching. Sometimes, when it was raining, or snowing, or when he was out in the middle of nowhere and he could see the milky way, he felt like he could just burst from the feeling of freedom. Other times, when he was running from the Center, or following a lead on his parents, he wondered if he would ever, actually be free.

He'd wound up in New York. Where he'd caught a bus full of hippies, and a beautiful Italian woman with a baby. He'd helped her get a job as a waitress at a roadside ice cream stand.

From there he'd hitchhiked to Tulsa Oklahoma, and caught a Greyhound headed for Louisville. He figured maybe he'd settle in for a bit there, or somewhere on the way. As he leaned back in the seat, his foot swung back and kicked something.

It turned out to be a shoe box, containing a postcard with the word “remember” written on the back, a bit of red thread, a small bottle of gold glitter, a Polaroid of some girls whispering to each other, and a journal.

He read the journal, and then read it again. And again. Who was this person who'd written it? Where were they? Where did they come from? Who was this woman they were looking for?

Who was Scarlett?