At the rest area in Sutherland, Nebraska, he exited the driver’s side of his old Ford truck, took off his hat, and smoothed back his final grey strands. He crossed along the front, squinting at the bug-encrusted windshield, absent-mindedly patting the hood, the engine that dutifully got them there. Chivalrously opening the passenger door for his wife, she waved him on, hunting around in the seat for something. He moved to the camper they towed, ready for their lunch break. He lowered the fold-out stairs, unlocked the door with a key, and waited for her to join him.
She climbed down from the truck and adjusted her cardigan sweater, tugging it down over her narrow hips as though the hips were once wider and required some self-consciousness. She shuffled toward the camper with a paper bag, a lean loaf of white sliced bread peering over the top. He tried again to offer assistance, but she pulled the bag away while smiling over at him. He let her enter first, holding the door open against the wind while his cap remained unflappably on his head. They entered, wobbly, holding the frame of the entrance, the fixed furniture inside, to get themselves upright, to stay that way.