I’m intimately familiar with the long, gray stretches of I-35. Last year after Thanksgiving break, I spent six hours in driving rain on the highway, driving back from Dallas to Austin. The road, if you spend enough time on it, becomes like a person; narrow, battered shoulders, a torso that stretches 200 miles long, vessels that sprout from its limbs into cities like Waco and West. At its head, the road dissolves into Austin, a tangled hive of lesser streets. In the heart of the road, halfway between Dallas and Austin, you can find I-35 at its most repellent: barren, hemmed by construction, mottled by gas stations and fast food. The belly of the beast.

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