Crossing the state line into California at some unknown hour, we were run ragged after the dizzying events of this evening — How we managed to make it here was beyond me. Into the Mystic, I thought as we chugged up the Truckee river valley and through the town of Mystic. We tiptoed through the small town of Truckee being chased by the soon-to-be-rising sun, somewhere far out to the east and over the edge of the world. We pulled the VW off the highway and into the rest stop at Donner Summit, stopping in the late mid-August night. I pulled the bus in with the over-the-road rigs and wondered if any of them had witnessed the roadside events of several days earlier in Nebraska. I went inside the facility and washed off the last little bits of dried blood from the side of my face.