Milepost 60
College students aren’t supposed to care too much, and I didn’t. Summer was nearly gone, the next semester waiting with its dull lineup—physics, history—topics that felt more like hurdles than subjects. The world demanded proof that I was worth something beyond selling shoes or flipping burgers. High school had felt richer somehow—more alive, more human—than this gray stretch called adulthood.

Heading home to small-town Utah for one last week before classes began again filled me with a strange ache—a mix of relief and dread. It felt like the final breath before diving underwater. The last shore leave before the war.

Milepost 32
It was Friday afternoon, August 19, 1983. Highway 257 in the middle of nowhere, 80 miles an hour with The Clash playing loudly through the cheap speakers of my maroon Camaro.

Far up ahead a red sedan broke the brown desolation this place. Out here, that was unusual. You didn’t just stumble on to this road by accident.

I pressed the gas. Whoever that was, I would catch them soon.

Milepost 26
I passed the red sedan without looking. What were they doing out here anyway? No one just happened onto Highway 257.  Every car had intent, a premeditated objective. Were they going to visit relatives? Or, like me, were they running from something?

In high school I’d had many friends—real ones, or so I thought. Carefree nights cruising Main, socializing, sometimes getting into small-town trouble. Life was a club sandwich of basketball, parties, track, pranks, girls, cross-country. I took the biggest bite I could.

But somehow, life had changed without warning. The laughter had faded. The colors dulled. I think I had my midlife crisis at twenty-one.

Milepost 15
I saw it up ahead: a white car. But not any white car. Even from a distance this car was out of place. It was not on the road but far off to the side. Tilted. Something about it was unnatural. Misplaced. For some reason I imagined what someone might think in a thousand years when they accidentally find an abandoned rover on the surface of the moon.

I was a nice person most of the time. The truth? I was an asshole. I chose friends the way others choose investments—based on the return. Reputation, popularity, if you could increase my standing before my peers I accepted you. If not, I tolerated you.

What’s another word for selfish?

Milepost 14 
I could see it clearly as I slowed, the mangled remains of the white car. I saw parts strewn in various directions, a twisted bumper here, an orphaned wheel there. Broken glass everywhere. How did this happen on a clear, sunny day in the desert?

The red sedan was a speck behind me and no one else was in sight. I decided to pull to the side of the highway and turn the car off. I rolled down the window and listened to the silence.

For just a moment, I considered stepping out, taking a closer look. But I squashed the urge. I convinced myself it was old wreckage. Someone else’s tragedy. Someone else’s problem.

I started the car and drove on.

Milepost 9 
The white car faded from memory as quickly as it had appeared. I was almost home, already making plans. Plans for the weekend would involve finding some friends and hanging out. What was Kim Williams doing? Maybe we would go for a ride in the mountains just like old times. I would give him a call tonight.

Home wasn’t a house or a town—it was people. People who filled the empty spaces in me. Who made me feel important. Who helped me construct my ego. Kim did that. He was always full of liveliness and fun and energy and I fed off of it. I didn’t want to think about next week and Kim could be counted on to not remind me about it.

Kim wasn’t really that outgoing, he was just likeable. He had that rare quality few have, making you feel included, a part of something. Comfortable. Never did he seem to talk about the negative, and most everything ended with a laugh or a wink. If you screwed up he would tell you without sugar-coating it, yet somehow you knew it wasn’t malicious. Not judgmental.

He wanted you to be better.

Milepost 0 
Milford, Utah. The edge of the world. A town most people never saw, except through their windshield. But for me it was everything.

Even in 1st grade a crowd of kids followed Kim around, impressed by his friendliness, his never-ending smile, and how fast he could run. Not much had changed in high school. He was the spark that lit every rebellion. If a food fight started in the lunch room, odds were good he started it. The jokes, the spit wads, they all had his fingerprints. Mischief without malice.  Always looking quite innocent with his dark Native American skin and shiny jet black hair and constant smile. At times in his life he struggled, but Kim never lost his optimism and enthusiasm. I loved him. I loved his laugh. I saw myself doing the things he did and being who he was.

I called that night. No answer. I called again an hour later. Still nothing. There would be time tomorrow, I told myself.

There’s always time.

Except there wasn’t.

The next morning, I learned Kim Williams was dead.

Kim had died the previous day in a horrific solo car accident north of town. He had lost control of his car at a high rate of speed. I didn’t ask how it happened—I didn’t want to know. At milepost 14 he was found by people in a red sedan who unselfishly stopped to help. They found Kim’s body behind some sagebrush and flagged down a train which radioed for help.

While they stopped, I drove on.

A few days later, instead of being with Kim, I dressed for his funeral. I dressed up but I didn’t go. I didn’t want anyone to see me and I didn’t want to see anyone.

I didn’t want to cry.

Epilogue — Twenty Years Later
It was August 19, 2003.

I was driving home on highway 257 in the desert between Delta and Milford. At milepost 14, this time I stopped. It was exactly twenty years to the day since Kim died on this spot. Despite the years, remnants of that horrific moment remained scattered about. Rusted bolts and pieces of broken glass. A broken mirror. A bent windshield wiper half-buried in the dust. The only sound was the wind through the sagebrush. I wandered around and gathered the small rusty pieces of the white car and placed them in a pile. This awkward little shrine seemed so inadequate to the emotions I felt inside.

On that very spot I spoke to Kim. Right out loud. Somehow I was sure he could hear me. I asked Kim for forgiveness—not just for that day, but also the many years before it. I told him I was not the friend he deserved. I told him I should have been there for him.

Perhaps if his life had taken a different path it might not have ended so early and suddenly. I had an opportunity to help him travel that different path, a better path. Instead, I followed Kim when I should have led him. I imitated Kim when I should have set an example for him. I failed him. For all of Kim’s amazing qualities I failed to save him from himself. I found myself partially responsible for everything.

On that day…
In that place…
At that moment…
I told Kim Williams I was sorry.

Twenty years later I cried. Not just for Kim, but also for my own failings.

Everyone around us is influenced by our actions. Shouldn’t we take some responsibility to make their lives better, richer, and more complete? In the bits and pieces of the white car Kim Williams taught me something I could never have learned without him. Even twenty years after his death, he taught me to be a friend. Not a fawning, selfish friend, but a real friend. A friend who would do anything he could to make relationships unconditional and without gain. A friend who would encourage others to travel a better path. He taught me that friendship isn’t about what you get. It’s about what you give.

I know he was there with me that day, twenty years later. I could almost hear his laugh in the wind. I hope he forgives me for failing him. Yet I will never forget Kim Williams and the lesson he taught me.

He taught me to save ourselves we must first learn to save others, and we can do this—every day of our lives.