No Man's Land.

WESTERN KANSAS

It's late. There's constant cloud-to-cloud lightning everywhere and gas stations nowhere. Nobody lives out here. It's terrifying.

We're 20-30 miles from empty. The little orange dash light comes on. Should have filled up in Salina after all.

Depeche Mode's Violator album thrums out of my Spotify app. It fits the apocalyptic hellscape perfectly.

We pull into a Sunmart travel plaza in Bunker Hill around one in the morning. It's an oasis of light and gas and caffeine amid the bleak, interminable nocturnal plains. The lightning has died down and now it's just dark. 

The cashier greets me with "Howdee do, kangaroo?" I don't know what to make of that, I'm feel so dead.

There are crappy porcelain Wizard of Oz knickknacks on the shelves everywhere, because oh yeah, Kansas. 

I'm spent. Nikita drives the last leg to Denver and I ride shotgun, sleeplessly.