The checkpost

There was a checkpost within sight.

Dirt and sweat. Distances long yet falling short of pay. That was how his days could be described. as a truck driver, what else could one expect.

He drove a goods truck, and what came as a surprise to many, was not an alcoholic. Only he knew that he had seen his father succumb to the devil, when he was a child.

Travelling ran through his veins like spirit. He had always been someone who grew up on the highway. His old man used to make roads, which he liked to see as paths leading somewhere. 
After work, both of them used to sit beside the highway, planning to tour the world someday.

His occupation would tire him but came with a sense of satisfaction. He knew he deserved more. The more his hours became unpredictable, the more determined he became to take himself and his wife out of the shanty town.

There was a checkpost within sight.
Only one difference.
He was carrying arms today.