Driving down the I95, I see the first message. Displayed twenty feet high, on a billboard to my right, barely visible above a patch of loblolly pine.  

WHEN YOU DIE YOU WILL MEET GOD.

I roll my eyes. The first of many signs, each marking another mile towards Florida. I adjust the radio as the signal stutters. I wonder how much it costs to rent a billboard. Two hundred? Three? If I were to make one, I’d use better graphic design. 

HEAVEN OR HELL? 

A ring of red fire, a flash of blue light. How many people has this message spoken to? Who’s mind is swayed by the peeling paper?

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? 

I cross the state line between North and South Carolina, marking 500 more miles to my destination. As a child, my siblings and I would stretch our arms out to maximize the time over the line, and yell two states at once! Two states at once! My mother would sigh, but I’d see the curve of a smile in the rear view mirror. 

HAVE YOU CALLED YOUR MOTHER RECENTLY?

“That one’s a bit personal,” I mutter to myself. The billboard’s gone in a few seconds, I don’t have enough time to read the byline. 

SHE JUST WANTS TO HEAR FROM YOU.

I grumble to myself over the blasting AC. “She could text me first. She has a phone.” 

I pull a granola bar from the passenger’s side glove box. I use my knee to balance the steering wheel while I peel open the plastic film. Glancing between the empty interstate ahead and the bar clutched in my fist, another billboard passes through my field of vision. 

REALLY? YOUR DOCTOR SAID TO WATCH YOUR CARBS. 

I frown. I don’t remember the boards being this specific. I haven’t driven this way since I was a child, driving from North Carolina to visit my grandparents. I’ve been stuck in that town for too long. It was too small for me, now, and I need a change of pace. Warm weather, water, distractions. A job to clear my head. 

HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT DYING RECENTLY? 

WHAT ARE YOU RUNNING FROM, JOHN?

“Excuse me?” I whip my head around, staring at the back of the billboard. A truck honks at me from the left lane, warning of my blind spot. 

I swear under my breath. In my distraction, I couldn’t catch another glimpse of the billboard. 

YOU HEARD ME. WHAT ARE YOU RUNNING FROM?

“That’s it.” 

I slam on the breaks. My Ford Explorer jerks, wheels screeching on the hot asphalt. I take the exit, whip left towards the overpass, and drive one mile in the opposite direction down the highway. I take another exit ramp to reverse course, eyes peeled for the billboard. In the same spot, the cynical face of a man in a gray suit stares down at the road. 

ADAM BETYA: DIVORCE ATTORNEY FOR CHEATED MEN. CHOOSE BETYA, DON’T LET HER GETCHA!

My face twists into a scowl. “Hmph.” 

Another honk behind me tells me I’m driving too slow. I sigh, speeding back to five miles over and letting the billboard sit in my dust. 

Maybe the sun’s tricking my eye. Maybe I’ve been driving too long by myself. Maybe I’ve been living too long by myself. Maybe I am running from something. So what? What’s the difference between running from something, and running towards something better? If my mom wanted a consistent relationship with me, she should’ve divorced her damn second husband and made an effort to meet me where I —

HELL IS REAL. CALL 555 795 2356 TO HEAR MORE. 

I flick on cruise control and type the phone number in. My heart’s pounding, and I’m ready to give the jokester on the other end a piece of my mind. 

A recorded answering machine blasts through my car’s speakers. It’s the same old drivel, fire and brimstone, fearmongering, evangelical proselytizing. I wait for a number menu to talk to a real person, but none comes. The line goes dead, but the call’s still playing — fizzy radio crackles fill the cab. 

As I drive through the next town, I see a familiar exit sign. An old lover lives here — or lived here — a few years ago. I left on good terms, for once. Maybe I’ll call him up. Maybe we can meet up under the HELL IS REAL billboard. I could use a moment of company with my madness. Maybe we’ll listen to the madness together.