know, the one a bit before the one that said Road 126: 2 Miles. Uhhh, I
didn't notice it. I'm just tryin' to concentrate on the road. You do want to
get there, right? Yep, sure. OK. No, we don't want 126. Our road is still
twenty-thirty miles up. 138. A silence. Just as awkwardly as before, the
map folds up into a smaller rectangle, disregarding all previous creases
and folds. It hastily finds refuge in a crammed glove compartment, also
filled with odd bits of food, driver's manuals, and crumpled pink napkins.
Down the red line the car, the stuff, and the map race against nothing in
particular, just with hope of reaching the black dot before too long.