Following Something

The road led into the mountains.  Into the mountains and through them.

Rain began to pour, but only for a moment.  Long enough for me to wander through the park's visitor center and snag a free pin from the welcome desk.

The pin was green.  It said that I'd found my park in Shenandoah National Park.  I tossed it in my backpack's front pocket, next to the tiny book on the park's Skyline Drive that I’d found at a housewares store in Brooklyn four months earlier.  The book had compelled me to do the drive, or more precisely, I was compelled by the feeling I had when I held it.