It was a summer afternoon, I can’t quite remember what state we were in but I was about 5, sitting high up in the passenger seat of my mom’s brand new navy blue Peterbilt, covered in dragonflies. The driver side door read “Monk” while the passenger side read “Fresh,” those symbolized by mom and step dad’s nicknames, they engraved it on the 18 wheeler they owned to symbolize their ownership and love for the truck they shared together, Flamez was her name. I sat there eagerly reading my book I had checked out from the local library just before we set out on the road, my mom was driving, my stepdad in the back snoring. I opened my book, the beginning of what would soon become my favorite series, Junie B. Jones. I began to read and as I read, the day flew by. Before I knew it the sun had set and we were stopping at a truckstop for fuel, I always loved to go inside the truck-stop, use the bathroom, grab some snacks, and maybe even a cool souvenir if I saw one, but this time I didn’t want to go, I barely even felt the truck stop. All I heard was my mom’s voice, annoyingly say, “Celine, are you coming?” “No” I replied, way to engaged in the book to even look up. She went inside to handle her business, came back and we pulled off. She drove all night long as I read my first chapter book, almost front to back. I would look up occasionally, but the antics of Junie B. Jones put me in another world.