Catnado Ignition —  CHAPTER 1 

I’m up before the sun, before the lot even decides what kind of day it wants to be.

Anchor Drop Travel Plaza is still half-asleep when I climb into the cab. Frost on the windshield. Yard lights buzzing like they’re tired of their own job. Somewhere off to the left, an engine coughs itself awake and then regrets it.

I sit there for a second with the door still open, just listening.

Nothing feels urgent yet. That’s usually how it gets you.

On the dash is a can of Catnado Energy. I don’t even remember putting it there, which is either normal or a problem I’ve stopped questioning. Cold metal, loud colors, like it’s trying to look important without explaining itself.

I crack it open.

No lightning. No drama. Just that first hit of caffeine that feels like somebody turned the world’s contrast up too high.

Everything sharpens.

The frost on the glass looks more detailed than it should. The yard lights feel closer. Even the quiet starts to feel like it’s doing something on purpose.

My headset crackles before I’m ready for it.

Dispatch.

“Morning,” they say, like mornings are something they personally invented. “Got a pretty simple one for you.”

I don’t answer right away. I’ve learned that silence doesn’t stop them, but it at least lets me pretend I had a choice.

Simple doesn’t exist in trucking. It’s just a word they use to soften impact.

I roll anyway.

The truck pulls out slow, heavy, familiar. Yard lines sliding under me like they’ve been doing this longer than I have. Forklifts cut through the fog in lazy arcs. Somebody’s shouting near a dock door, but it’s too early for me to translate it into meaning.

Everything looks organized from a distance.

Up close, it never is.

As I hit the gate, I take another sip of Catnado. It doesn’t taste like anything I trust, but it does its job. My thoughts speed up just enough to feel useful.

The road opens up ahead of me.

Empty lanes. Cold air. Early morning silence that hasn’t decided what to become yet.

And I’ve got that familiar feeling in my chest—

like today is already in motion

and I’m just catching up to it.

Behind me, the lot disappears.

Ahead of me, nothing feels stable enough to be called “normal” for long.

And somewhere out there, I know it’s waiting—whatever “it” is today.