Tim Jamieson stayed overnight at a noisy budget hotel near Tampa International Airport, slept fitfully to the sound of planes, and ate a mediocre complimentary breakfast. He waited until the banks opened at nine to cash the airline’s payout.

At the bank, Tim easily redeemed the two-thousand-dollar check, pocketed the cash, retrieved his duffel, and called an Uber to Ellenton. From there, he began hitchhiking north along U.S. 301.

After about fifteen minutes, an elderly man in a mud-streaked Dodge Ram picked him up. When the man asked his destination, Tim said he was ultimately headed to New York, though he might prefer to reach Georgia first. He reflected that private security work in New York might be available despite the professional misstep that ended his Florida police career.

The driver, who favored loud country music, carried Tim about seventy miles before dropping him off with a friendly sendoff. Tim did not reach Georgia that night and instead stayed at another cheap motel beside an orange juice stand.

The next day, Tim reached Brunswick, Georgia. On impulse, he took a two-week job at a recycling plant, not for money but for time to adjust to his new, transitional phase. He settled into the area’s simple comforts, noting a bowling alley with a Denny’s next door.