He drove long haul, mostly nights, twelve hundred kilometres a run.
The passenger seat was warm. Warm with the air conditioning on, warm after the truck had stood all night, warm on winter mornings when the wheel was cold enough to hurt.
He changed trucks three times. All three.
The mechanic went through the wiring and said there was nothing wrong with it. The seat heater worked and was not on.
One year he turned the dashcam round to face into the cab and let it record all night.
On the playback the seat is empty. Four hours and seven minutes in, the seatbelt buckle closes by itself. You can hear the click.
After that he left the passenger belt fastened and stopped touching it.
In the nineteenth year, a little after three in the morning, he got in and put his hand on the seat.
Cold.
He pulled onto the hard shoulder and sat there two hours until it got light.
It happened that afternoon, on the same road, at the forty-seven kilometre marker. He climbed out of the cab himself.
Standing on the verge he looked back at the truck. The passenger door was open. On the rear window there was a patch of mist in the shape of a person, and it had not cleared yet.