Traffic was at a standstill on Interstate 40 through the Pigeon River Gorge when the message came through.
Whoa. Breaking News. Dolly is actually going to be here.
I gawked at the little green text bubble and shifted restlessly in the driver’s seat. “There’s no way,” I muttered. An hour behind schedule already, I could see the endless chain of brake lights ahead of me curving around the neck of the mountain like a piece of flashy costume jewelry. The midsummer sun was moving westward, its rays glinting off hood ornaments shaped like flying pigs and angry rubber ducks.
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