My brother and I were texting back and forth all day. One thing we noticed: Colonial names from Europe are everywhere. It’s like the further west they went, the less creative people got. However, we came across Broken Bone Lake. He said, “I wonder about THAT backstory.”
Michael let me know I was coming up on Havre, Montana. “Harbor, in French,” he said. “No water nearby. Good drugs back then.” And there you have it, folks.
Then the teasing began.
“Oh look! They stopped at Dairy Queen for you!” and
“AHA! PJ’s Casino!! This is better than Where’s Waldo!”
I’d sent him a list of all the train stops, which was clearly a mistake, because next he said, “Hey! You can get off the train in Everett! That’s only 10 miles north of here! Worst case scenario, you text me when you’re leaving Leavenworth.”
Cue the record scratch.
Why was my brother preparing to pick me up from prison? Isn’t Leavenworth a little…extreme for just stepping off the train early?
Then it clicked: Washington has a town called Leavenworth.
I will admit my heart stopped for a solid two seconds before I realized I wasn’t about to be fitted for an orange jumpsuit.
Brothers. GPS support, weather sass, and now, accidental emotional terrorism.
