Most mornings I drive people to Cape Girardeau in a Nissan Versa. Some talk the whole way. Others stare out the window, saying nothing.

I used to fill that silence because I figured my job was to connect and find the right words.

It isn’t.

My job is to show up on time, keep the radio low, and drive. When a man says, “Rough week,” I don’t fix it. I nod. I wait.

That’s usually when he says the real thing.

He decides what comes next. I just get to sit beside him for part of the ride.

That counts the most.