At half past twelve on an August night,
San Angelo slept beneath pale moonlight.
Kyle Lawson stirred as his cellphone rang,
A brother’s name—and his nerves went bang.
“Help me,” cried Brandon, voice sharp with fear,
“Three men chase me—Kyle, they’re getting near.
I’m north on 277, gas running dry,
Meet me in secret—don’t ask me why.”
The road was empty, West Texas wide,
Two lanes of darkness, no place to hide.
Kyle sighed deep, annoyance loud,
He knew that tone—meth-fueled, clouded, proud.
Brandon had history, scars and strain,
Six months clean, then temptation again.
Just days before, he’d begged for a lead,
Kyle warned him gently, “Stay clean—please heed.”
A fight with his fiancée had sent him away,
“To Mom and Dad’s house—cool off, okay?”
But high or not, hallucination or fear,
Kyle chose love over sleep and drove out there.
With wife beside him, child in the back,
They searched that highway, mile by black mile track.
Fields stretched endless, shrubs small and sparse,
A land so open it felt almost harsh.
Then headlights died in the distance ahead,
A truck half-parked, silent, dead.
Brandon’s ride—engine cold, lights off tight,
Kyle pulled over beneath stars of the night.
“Stay here,” he whispered, stepping away,
Expecting his brother to laugh, then obey.
But the cab was empty, the seat was bare,
No Brandon waiting—no Brandon there.
Calls kept coming just minutes before,
“Hurry up, Kyle—they’re close—I can’t run more!”
Now nothing but silence, confusion and dread,
Then Brandon called—“I’m here,” he said.
“I don’t see you,” Kyle snapped in despair,
Then headlights bloomed—a cop car’s glare.
As tires slowed and the engine sighed,
Brandon whispered, “Run. Don’t let him stop you—hide.”
That meant he was watching, somewhere unseen,
In cactus and grass, where had Brandon been?
Fields lay naked, the night stood bare,
No shadows deep enough to swallow a man there.
The call went dead. The deputy came,
Neil of Coke County—calm, by name.
“A trucker called—said a driver was stuck.
Is this your vehicle?” He nodded at the truck.
Kyle lied softly to shield his kin,
“He walked for gas… I just got in.
May I search the road?” The deputy agreed,
So Kyle drove on, heart burning with need.
Calls went unanswered, patience ran thin,
A child cried tired, the night wore him in.
At two a.m., they turned back home,
Leaving Brandon’s fate unknown.
The deputy locked the truck, hazards aglow,
And left that highway with a troubling glow.
At dawn he returned—the truck still there,
No Brandon, no answers, unease in the air.
Then truth cracked open like thundered glass,
A call from Leiddessa—Brandon never passed
His parents’ house, nor came back home,
No texts, no calls—he’d vanished alone.
Search teams poured in with dogs and flight,
Thermal eyes piercing day and night.
They scoured Highway 277’s spine,
But found no trace—no blood, no sign.
Authorities shrugged, drew a tired line,
“He fled on purpose—he’ll show in time.”
Then four days later, a chilling reveal,
A printed call log made the truth feel real.
At 12:50 a.m., amid frantic pleas,
Brandon had called 911—not with ease.
He feared the police, would run, not call,
So why reach out when cornered at all?
The tape confirmed what chills still raise:
A voice in the background… frantic phrase.
Chased through fields, men closing fast,
Then silence fell—the line went black.
The search reignited, vast and intense,
A year of effort, time and expense.
Still Brandon Lawson—gone, erased,
A mystery time refused to face.
Years rolled by, theories grew,
High on meth? Kidnapped? Murdered too?
Or fled by choice into nameless air?
No answer fit—none truly fair.
Then January, twenty twenty-two,
Volunteers walked ground long thought through.
In a field searched countless times before,
They found white shoes… and shorts once more.
A skull fragment lay not far away,
DNA spoke—Brandon had stayed.
Or had he returned? That’s the question still,
How missed by dogs, by drones, by will?
Flat land, short grass, nothing concealed,
Yet nine long years, the truth stayed sealed.
So choose your answer—blindness or bend:
Was he always there… or brought back again?
Why call for help, then flee the sound?
Why vanish, yet be later found?
Highway 277 still whispers his name,
A West Texas riddle wrapped in pain.
To this very day, the mystery lives on,
Brandon Lawson’s truth—still gone, still gone.
