A catio, for those of you who have somehow avoided the discourse, is a patio for a cat. The remaining four-fifths exist as a sketch, a stack of cedar, and some chicken wire.

For roughly ninety seconds, the plan was to bring the unfinished one-fifth on the trip. He was going to finish it on the road.

“eh, nevermind.”

The catio remains.

The cat was not consulted at any point in this process.

Next: literally anything else.

I use the word route generously. What he actually did was list a series of errands, favors, and vague gestures toward states, and then look at me as if this all added up to a plan.

Here is what I caught:

• Louisville — drop off a trailer. (Whose trailer? Unclear. He waved.)
• Nashville — pick up a mandolin from Micah’s house. It belonged to Great Uncle Hershel. Michael does not currently play the mandolin. He says it’d rip on th beach.
• Somewhere — pick up a camp stove. He said the name of the town with the confidence of a man who had not yet looked at a map.
• Georgia, maybe — some friends live there. He’s not sure where in Georgia. He’s pretty sure they still live there.
• A tree — somewhere. To hang a hammock between. To sleep in. Because why hotels.

When I asked which of these happens first, he said “we’ll see what the truck wants to do.”

So: a mandolin, a trailer, a stove, some friends, a tree. In that order, or any other order. Possibly all in the same day.

I’ll update the map as the actual route reveals itself. Place your bets.

Next: wherever the truck points.