As quickly as the scent taunted my olfactory receptors, it dissipated.

I turned to my right and stared at Mike, our bassist, telegraphing bewilderment. It was to no avail because he was plumbing the depths of Tolkien. I turned my attention southward, absorbing what I could of Texas’ majesty—under our feet was a vast and flat green and brown, while above yellow and blue forever yawned. I privately conceded that God may not be such a silly proposition. The scent returned. It was warm, savory, and familiar. And it was stronger.

“Nobody else smells that?” I implored. No answer. “Mike...?”

“I don’t smell anything,” he said without looking up. I called to the front seats.

“Guys...?” I waited.

My brother Shahin pored over a binder in the passenger seat. Jake, our drummer and resident mechanic, bellowed from behind the van’s wheel, “All I smell is the heat,” he yelled over the howling open windows. “It’s gotta be over 100. Easy.”

“Speaking of over 100—how fast are you going?” Shahin intimated.

“Fast enough so that the heat feels good blasting through the windows,” Jake rejoined. Mike counseled that we were deep in Texas and didn’t want to be pulled over for speeding. We also had another four weeks and 2000 miles to go.

“It’s...popcorn!” I cried. Jake’s incredulity swaggered forth.

“I hate to tell you,” he began, “but there hasn’t been a single living thing on the road, for as far as we can see, for over 300 miles.” We had already pulled over and inspected under the hood and exhaust; all was clean and intact.

“Dude,” I pleaded—

“Wait,” Shahin said, looking up with a bloodhound’s curiosity. He turned around and then lunged over his seat, pointing to a bag of dirty laundry above Mike’s head: dark, thick smoke plumed from it.

A fireball exploded. Torrents of profanity filled the van. Jake pulled over, and Mike bolted from the van. My brother and I quickly doused the basketball-sized conflagration. As I pulled down my charred dirty laundry, Shahin inspected the site of the fire and discovered the butt of a Camel Blue cigarette. All eyes slowly turned to Jake. He grimaced.

“New van rule—ashtrays,” Mike declared. “No throwing cigarettes out the window.”

We cleaned up and hit the road, settling into the aroma of scorched Levis and plywood. Mike scoured the pages for where he had left off, and a cigarette butt flew into his lap.