One dog and two complete strangers set out to run across America. Over some 3,000 miles and 101 days, the strangers shared stories of ambition, addiction, dreams, and fate. But one thing they never discussed: the worst day of the trip, which they knew was coming.
They’d started their journey in Georgia, 78 days and 1,926 miles ago. Watching from 30 feet away, worrying, stood the third member of their party, a chef by profession who handled driving, caring for the mutt, shopping, cooking, gassing up the RV, pulling up the jacks and stabilizing bars every morning, finding water, and dumping sewage. The chef wrote in his journal a lot, about the agony of the settlers who’d lost family members to disease and violence as they traveled this way hundreds of years ago, or the genocide wrought by those settlers on the indigenous people. Everyone who knew the chef spoke of his generosity and compassion, but he did have a tendency to brood.