I am writing about a very specific road, but I can’t for the life of me remember its name. It was two lanes. It curved through the trees so you could never see too far ahead. On the left side was the reservoir, hidden by pines, and I knew the two secret entrances even though no trespassing (or swimming) was allowed. The road seemed to head straight into the mountains, but I never followed it all the way. At some point it must have stopped, or split into other roads, or merged onto a highway. I wouldn’t know.
My memory holds all the details (the single-light intersection, the antique shop, the entrance to the old dirt highway, the train stop that closed), just not the number. It was Route [something]. This is what happens when you spend your life looking out windows. I really should learn how to drive.