After the first anniversary of Daniel’s disappearance, I stopped driving on Route 9. Even seeing a rest stop sign made my chest tighten and brought back memories of calling his name.

Last Tuesday, an accident forced my GPS to redirect me. I didn’t realize where I was headed until I saw the familiar highway sign appear ahead.

My hands tightened around the steering wheel. I wanted to turn around, but I kept driving. Twenty miles later, a rear tire suddenly blew out.

I pulled onto the shoulder and broke down in tears. It wasn’t the tire that hurt—it was the road itself. Route 9 had somehow found its way back into my life-