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Been through hundreds of small towns, none smaller than Many Springs, on Highway 160, so small that the city limit signs are on the same pole, back-to-back.

In the darkness, I followed a silver Suburban for two hours. Visible through its back window was a video screen playing to backseat passengers, so as I drove along Route 60 to Springfield, I watched Finding Nemo on a small-screen rolling drive-in. Wish I’d known their cell number, so I could have connected to the soundtrack. Alas, I drove on …

So I set out to feel every crack in Missouri’s pavement. As with all stories – and symphonies and carnal acts – it was an uneven ride. Although a dozen friends and a handful of reporters rode with me on segments, my only constant partner was my car. Racking up more miles on her odometer than the distance to the …

The map called out the names; I traced the stories. Every fold in the Ozarks, every bend in the rivers, every drive down the main drag in 700 towns reminded me that even as my map sets the stage, it can’t produce the play. Maps squish miles into millimeters. They conceal identities even as they reveal names. They’re lazy and …

I climbed up and took a nap beneath the T on this sign, sharing space with the ghosts of travelers who stopped here long ago to add a sticky chapter to their Route 66 journey. Locals too. And Spring breakers in Cadillacs and furs and nylons. Their stories swirl around this ruin, untold, Gray Summit’s silent sequel to the script …