I knew Michael Delaney in college. Not well — not the kind of well where you know someone's mother's name and what they had for breakfast on a random Tuesday in November. I knew him the way you know someone in college: you share a class, you share a table at dinner, you share the particular unhappiness of being young and intelligent and not sure what to do with either of those things.

We were at Ohio State together. I was studying business — not because I loved it but because my father wanted me to and my father's wants were the kind of things that don't get debated, they get complied with. Michael was studying political science, which is a major that sounds like you're studying government but is really just studying how to be unhappy about government with better vocabulary.

Michael was the kind of person who made you feel like you were failing even when you weren't failing, because he was succeeding at something you couldn't name but could feel. He talked about changing the world the way other people talk about sports — with a mixture of passion and frustration and the sense that the game is rigged but you're going to play it anyway because what else are you going to do.

I listened to him. I nodded. I said things like "that's really inspiring" and "you should run for something" and I didn't mean either of them because I knew, even then, that people like Michael don't run for anything. They talk for a while and then they stop talking and then they wonder when the talking stopped.

After college, I came to Columbus and started driving for a trucking company. It wasn't glamorous but it paid and it got me from point A to point B and that's what I've been doing ever since — getting from point A to point B in a truck that's bigger than my apartment.

Michael came to Columbus too. He got a job with a nonprofit organization that helped low-income families access housing. It was the kind of job that doesn't pay well and doesn't offer much future and is exactly the kind of job the world needs more of and the kind of job nobody except Michael would take.

We stayed in touch. Not often — a phone call every few months, a Christmas card, the occasional email that Michael wrote in a stream-of-consciousness style that made every message read like a manifesto.

The first time I really saw him after college was at a reunion in 2019. He looked tired. Not old-tired — the kind of tired that comes from caring about things that don't care back.

"How's the world-changing going?" I said.

He smiled. It was a good smile — warm and genuine and slightly broken, like a door that opens but doesn't close all the way. "It's going. Slowly. There's this housing crisis in the South Side and—"

I had heard him talk like this in college. I had nodded then too. But something was different. He wasn't just talking anymore. He was asking. He was looking at me the way you look at someone and thinking: you have a truck. You can help me move stuff. You can drive me to a meeting. You can listen.

I drove him to three meetings that weekend. He talked at each one. Nobody solved anything. But he looked a little less tired after each one, which I took as progress.

The last time I saw him in person was in March 2023. He called me. I was on a run — Chicago to Indianapolis, twelve hours behind the wheel, radio on low, the highway stretching ahead like a road that goes on forever because it does, it's supposed to go on forever, that's what highways are for.

He called on his cell. I picked up because it was him and because I always pick up when he calls, even when I shouldn't.

"Henry," he said. "I need your help."

"What for?"

"There's a family on East Broad Street. They've been evicted. They have nothing. Their car was repossessed yesterday. The kids haven't eaten in two days. I can't— I can't fix it alone."

"What do you need?"

"Can you bring some stuff? Food. Blankets. A few days' worth of groceries. I have a storage unit, but I can't move the boxes by myself."

I said I would. I said it the way you say things when you mean them in the moment and don't think about them later.

I brought the stuff on a Saturday. Michael met me at the storage unit in a faded t-shirt and jeans and a look on his face that I recognized — it was the look of a man who was running on fumes and keeping going on spite.

The family was in a small apartment on East Broad Street. Three kids, the youngest maybe four. The mother, Lisa, was sitting on a couch that had no springs left and holding the youngest on her lap while the other two played on the floor with toys that were missing pieces.

Michael introduced us. I handed Lisa a bag of groceries. She said thank you and her voice was small and I wanted to say something bigger than groceries but I didn't have anything bigger.

I stayed for an hour. I sat on the couch. I talked to Michael in the kitchen while he made tea. He talked about the housing crisis the way he always talked — passionate, detailed, slightly frantic. I listened the way I always listened — nodding, saying things, feeling the gap between what I was saying and what I was doing widening by the minute.

When I left, Lisa walked me to the door. She was holding the youngest's hand. She said: "Thank you for coming."

I said: "Anytime."

I didn't mean it. Or maybe I did. I wasn't sure. That's the thing about promises you make in other people's living rooms — you mean them in the moment, but the moment doesn't last and the promise outlasts the moment and then the promise is just a word floating in a room that no longer exists.

I drove home. The highway was empty at 4 PM on a Saturday. The sky was gray. I thought about the family and Michael and the storage unit full of boxes that he couldn't move by himself and I thought: I should do more.

I didn't do more.

The next time Michael called was in May. I was in Denver — a long haul, four days, lots of alone time. He called at 2 AM my time, which meant it was 5 AM in Columbus, which meant he was calling because he couldn't sleep.

I picked up.

"Henry," he said. His voice was different. Not tired — hollow. The way your voice sounds when you've been talking to people all day and none of them have said anything that matters and you're tired of talking to people who don't listen.

"Hey, Michael. You okay?"

"No."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I don't know what to talk about. Everything's the same. It's always the same. I try and nothing changes and I try again and nothing changes and I try one more time and—"

"Michael."

"And nothing."

I was quiet. I was driving. I was supposed to be paying attention. I was paying attention. But I was also listening to him, and listening to him was the kind of thing that made driving feel like something I was doing mechanically, like breathing — necessary but not chosen.

"Michael," I said. "Take a breath."

"I can't."

"Then just drive. You're driving, right?"

"Yes."

"Keep driving. That's all you have to do. Just keep driving."

We were quiet for a while. The radio was playing something I couldn't hear over the phone. The highway went on.

"Henry," he said finally. "Do you think it matters?"

"What matters?"

"Any of it. The housing crisis. The nonprofits. The meetings. The phone calls. Do you think any of it matters?"

I thought about it. I thought about the family on East Broad Street. I thought about Lisa holding her youngest on a couch with no springs. I thought about Michael making tea in a kitchen that probably had a leaky faucet. I thought about the storage unit full of boxes he couldn't move.

"I think it matters that you try," I said.

"That's not an answer."

"No," I said. "It's not. It's the only answer I have."

He hung up.

I drove to Denver. I delivered the load. I picked up a new load and drove back to Columbus. When I got to Columbus, I thought about calling Michael back. I didn't. I told myself I would call him tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went. The week came and went. I told myself I would call him next week.

The phone call I didn't return came on a Thursday in July. I was in Pittsburgh — another long haul, another four days, another highway that went on forever. My phone rang. It was Michael.

I was in a tunnel. The tunnel was long and the radio cut out and my phone rang and I let it ring because I couldn't answer in a tunnel and when I got out of the tunnel, he had stopped calling.

I pulled over at the next exit. I called him back. He didn't answer. I left a voicemail: "Hey, it's Henry. I got your call. Sorry I missed it. Call me when you can."

He didn't call back.

The next time I saw him was three weeks later, and he was different. Not physically — he was still thin and tired and wearing the same faded t-shirt — but something had shifted. His voice was quieter. His eyes were less bright. His hands, when we shook, felt different — not weaker, just... absent. Like the person inside them had moved somewhere I couldn't reach.

We sat at a diner on High Street. He ordered coffee. I ordered coffee. We sat and looked at each other across a table that had been cleaned with a rag that was probably not clean.

"How's it going?" I said.

He looked at me for a long time. I could see the question behind his eyes — the question he had been asking himself for years: what is the point of any of this? — but he didn't ask it. He just said: "Slowly."

"I should have called you back in July."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded. It was a small nod. The kind of nod you give when you've heard the apology a thousand times and you know it doesn't change anything but you accept it anyway because what else can you do?

We sat in silence for a while. The diner was full of people eating breakfast and talking about things that mattered to them — their kids, their jobs, the weather. Michael and I were two people who had known each other in college and had drifted apart and had come back together and were drifting apart again.

"Henry," he said. "Do you remember what you said to me in college? About the world?"

"I don't know."

"You said: 'I'm not going to change the world. I'm just going to drive trucks and pay my bills and be a decent person.'"

I remembered. I had forgotten that he remembered.

"I said that because I was scared," I said.

"I know."

"Do you think I made the right choice?"

I thought about it. I thought about the family on East Broad Street. I thought about Michael's voice on the phone in the tunnel. I thought about Lisa holding her youngest on a couch with no springs. I thought about the storage unit full of boxes.

"I don't know," I said. "I think I made a choice. Whether it was right, I don't know."

He smiled. It was the same smile from the reunion — warm and genuine and slightly broken. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."

I drove home that night. The highway was dark and empty. I thought about Michael sitting in that diner, smiling that smile, knowing that I was right and not knowing what to do about it.

I think about him a lot. Not every day — not often. But when I'm on the highway at 2 AM and the road is empty and the only sound is the engine and the tires and the wind, I think about him. I think about what he was trying to do. I think about what I could have done. I think about the gap between knowing what's right and doing it, and how wide that gap is and how impossible it is to bridge.

I keep driving. The road goes on. The city fades in the rearview mirror and then it's gone and all that's left is the highway and the night and the thought: I should have.

Objective Codes (OTMES-v2): M1=4.5 M2=0.5 M3=2.0 M4=4.0 M5=2.0 M6=1.5 M7=0.0 M8=0.0 M9=2.0 M10=3.0 N1=0.20 N2=0.80 K1=0.70 K2=0.30 theta=180deg E_total=11.2 TI=55.0 level=T3