I think: ThereTs no way to ever know. But Sethcould have stopped there for gas that night. Hecould have eaten here, in this very booth, on thissame seat. I decided that he did. The waitress comesand | tell her, otwo cheeseburgers, small Dr. Pepper.?When I finish eating itTs almost 8:00. I paythe one-armed man at the cash register and leavetwo dimes on my table. Outside, the wind haspicked up; my car radio mentions otonightTs expectedlow, 28 degrees.?I take the four-lane boulevard through town,heading west. Nothing has changed since the last timeI made this trip. I pass the Post Office and the volun-teer fire department. A long line of cars are parked infront of a tremendous white house with blazing flood-lights: the funeral home. The huge front door is open;two men and a woman in heavy winter coats are stand-ing on the porch.And now I am thinking of my mother: of howher face drained out of focus when the State Patrol-man called. How she forced herself into SethTsfuneral, somehow accepting the heavy finality of aclosed casket. And how my father held us and cried,and told us, oItTs alright to cry, go ahead and cry,let it out.? He paid for the funeral in monthly install-ments, and sold SethTs twisted blue Camaro to thecity salvage company.As the boulevard narrows to two lanes I pass asign that reads NOW LEAVING BURLESVILLE.The streetlights give out just past the city line andI push my headlights off and bump across the railroadtracks in nothing but first-quarter moonlight. I cansee clear maybe half a mile down the tracks andright at the horizon thereTs a tiny green signal flare,right between the converging lanes of dark pines.Then ITm in the dark. I pull my lights back on,and wind through the gears until ITm takingcurves at 50 and hitting 75 on the straights. No onetaught me to drive like this. ItTs just the way todrive the last stretch when youTre going home; thatlast 15 miles you know every bump and crack inthe pavement and if thereTs ever a time to let it out,thatTs it. | never saw Seth turn his Camero looseexcept on those last few miles. He was always carefulwith that car.I soar around another corner and pass an oldDodge pickup. It only takes a moment for the truckheadlights to shrink into pinpoints in my rearview.I'm getting near the cut-off now. Highway 211dead-ends into 95 just before you get to our house.Slowing down for the turn I have to wonder whatwas going through his head. 211 runs east throughnothing but pure swampland.And nobody understood that. oWhere was hegoing?? SethTs girlfriend asked me after the funeral.oHe was coming home from.the concert in Rock-ingham,? I said. oNext thing we knew they hadfound his car.?She already knew all that. She asked me againwhere he had been going on 211, and I told her thatI didnTt know.oThereTs nothing out there for twenty miles,?she said. oWhy didnTt he just go on home??I couldnTt say anything.oWas there really a sixpack of beer in the car??oYes.? ItTs under my bed, now, gathering dust"an unopened six of Bud that I took out of the backseat. We live in a dry county. You canTt even buybeer.After the turn I have seven miles to go. I slipone of SethTs tapes"a ZZ Top"into my 8-track.Clouds have cut off the moon and itTs really darknow, this far out in the country. The land is flat withdense scrub and an occasional pine. I almost runover a family of possums trying to cross the road.And then I pick up the sign in my headlightsand before ITm close enough to read it the pedal isfloored and ITm doing 85 or 90 and screaming towardswhat the State Patrolman called othe worst curve inBenson County.? ItTs not so much a sharp turn, butthe pavement is banked the wrong way and thereTsno railing between the road and the line of treeswhere Seth ended up.And I take it. I cut across the double yellow lineand take the inside lane with the tires just wailing. Forjust an instant it looks like I wonTt make it, but I cutit hard and come out of the slide and then ITm past_the curve, fishtailing down the straight and graduallyslowing down. Seth never got this far.I stop the car, turn around and head backtowards the place my brother died: a twist on themap that I'll never know.