The map on my dash is a rumor
streets slide and stretch when the sun goes down
names blur
corners forget themselves
I follow sound and smell and the soft pull of habit
the meter blinks like a small red moon and says we begin again

First ping is a thrift store with lights still buzzing after close
a woman waits outside hugging a garment bag and a shoebox
she climbs in careful like she is carrying a secret animal
take me to the motel with the blue sign she says
she opens the zipper two inches and I see lace the color of old paper
wedding dress she says but not for a wedding
I will wear it for a photo and send it to nobody
she laughs without teeth and says sometimes you finish the story yourself
at the motel she pays exact and leaves a bobby pin on the seat like a comma

A corner drummer flags me with two sticks
he has a snare strapped to his chest and a backpack that clicks like coins and bottle caps
venue by the river he says
we cut through side streets where the asphalt remembers summer
he taps light on the back of my headrest and the cab becomes a pocket parade
he tells me rhythm keeps him sober and nights honest
at the door he knocks the snare once and says that is for you driver
a little heartbeat to carry

A kid with a cardboard box next
tape wrapped halfway around and refusing its job
inside I hear metal clink and plastic sigh
gaming rig parts he says I build PCs for people who want to be somewhere else
I ask if that works
he says sometimes the map inside a screen is kinder than the one outside
we ride quiet except for parts shifting like small weather
at his place he hands me a fan still sealed and says for your dashboard when the air pretends it is not tired

Midnight arrives with the smell of sugar and tired oil
a donut shop goes half dark and a baker with flour on her wrists steps out
she asks for a ride to her mother’s place
she talks about dough and grief like they share a recipe
says the trick is knead until it relaxes
do not punch too hard
let it rise when it is ready
she leaves a paper bag that breathes cinnamon and tells me to eat before the night eats me

A call from a block with too many palm trees
a voice on the curb says here and I stop
a man holding a birdcage climbs in
inside is a parrot the color of limes and bad ideas
he says the bird answers to captain sometimes
we drive to a house with a porch light that blinks like a tired eye
the parrot repeats small words the whole way
left
again
maybe
at the door the man thanks me with a feather caught in the wire
I do not know what to do with that so I put it near the vents and let it decide

I pick up a rideshare mix up
two friends waving at two cars and choosing wrong
they tumble in and argue about karaoke and who stole whose fries
I take them to a place with red lights and sticky floors
they yell good advice at me and forget it before the door closes
I sit for a minute and let the quiet swim back

Then an old man with a folded paper map
he ignores the phone in his pocket and spreads the creases across his knees
he wants a street that no longer exists
used to run behind a bakery and a shoe repair he says
I drive the skeleton of it
a new condo sits where his memory is parked
he nods and says the street had a different name anyway
I circle once more and he points to an empty space and smiles
there
that is where I kissed a girl who said maybe
he pays in ones and a bus token and tells me to keep going north whenever the day feels narrow

A short lull
the wind sneaks in through a cracked seal and brings the smell of laundry vents and cooling asphalt
I drink water because the sticky note says to
across the way a cat counts the cars with its eyes and loses track at five

A young actress wearing sneakers and hope gets in next
audition in the morning she says but sleep will not answer
take me to the pier so I can hear my lines with waves on them
we park with the windows down and the ocean breathes like a fat metronome
she reads half a page then laughs at herself then gets quiet and starts again
after a while she says thank you like a real line and I take her home across streets that do not judge

Near two a mechanic waves me from a closed garage
hands black with the kind of work that fixes other people’s noise
he needs a lift to a parts warehouse that never sleeps
he talks about bolts and mercy and how engines lie until you listen for the truth under the rattle
he smells like metal and rain that missed its chance
when we stop he tightens my loose mirror with a pocket tool and calls it even

I catch a market crew on their way to set up tents before sunrise
four of them in hoodies carrying poles and sleepy optimism
they talk about peaches like doctors and argue about where shade will land at ten
one falls asleep against the window for three blocks and wakes up smiling
they leave me a bruised plum and it tastes like a mistake that forgives you

The last ride before gray is a librarian off the late shift
she carries a tote full of returns and a face that has learned to be gentle
she says night patrons tell better stories
I say cab passengers do too
she pulls out a paperback with a bent spine and hands it over
for your glove box she says for the hour when the engine will not explain itself
I tell her about the boy who returns screws and buttons to the lost and found and she says he is working reference

Dawn leans across the windshield
the sky shrugs on a lighter shirt
I park by the river while the city ties its shoes
I look at the gifts piled up like breadcrumbs for a future version of me
bobby pin
snare knock
fan in a box
cinnamon bag half air now
lime feather by the vent
paper map crease like a vein
a paperback that wants one more reader

The meter blinks its small truth
zero again
not empty
open
I listen to the new day shuffle its cards and think of all the maps people carry
some drawn on paper some under the ribs
none of them right or wrong
just roads that need a driver who will keep going when the street changes its name
I start the engine
let the feather tremble
and take the first left that feels like a sentence I can say without hurry