Start by noticing something out of the window. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

That lighthouse's been sat there the whole time we've been on this stretch, feels like. We must've turned three times and it's still just... there, off to the right. Weird how they do that, tricks your sense of direction.

Loose how — like actually loose, or just you're numb from gripping it? Don't do the dramatic reveal thing where the wheel comes off in your hands, I've got maybe four hours of patience left in the tank. And no, I said three, not a dozen, you're mishearing everything now, that's what road noise does to you after a while.

The knob wiggling is a design feature, that's just — every car's got a bit of play in it, don't panic. And no, I can't hear a lighthouse mocking us, I can hear you being weird about a lighthouse. Fiddle with the dial, we're not doing static for the next hour, I'll lose my mind. Try the low end, sometimes there's a talk station down there that isn't just white noise pretending to be a radio show.

Don't ask and then tell me not to answer, pick one. Hands cold's just circulation, wave them around or something, don't make it my problem while I'm driving. And it's a lighthouse, it doesn't watch, it just sits there being a lighthouse, that's the whole job description. You've fixated on it, that's what's happening, you've got nothing else to look at so it's become a personality in your head.

I'm not drifting, I'm dead center, you're the one whose eyes have gone weird staring at a tower for forty minutes. And who left the heater on — is that your place or is that a stranger's crisis coming through on some channel we've hijacked? Because if some random person's house is about to burn down I feel like that's more urgent than my lane discipline. Turn the actual dial, not the wheel, find something with words in it.

Your heater's just running for whoever else lives there then, hope that's fine. Concrete history, brilliant, that'll get us through Ohio or wherever the hell we are. Leave the light in view yourself if it's so comforting, I've got actual road to watch, not decorative maritime infrastructure. Turn it up, I want to know how they got it to set underwater, that's the part that never made sense to me.

Rain's not the radio, that's actually happening, look at the windshield. Great, on top of everything now visibility's garbage. Cofferdams, huh — so basically they cheat, they don't actually pour concrete underwater, they just trick the water into leaving for a bit. Feels like a scam when you put it that way. Turn the wipers up, not the radio, I need to see if that lighthouse of yours is still following us or if we finally lost it.

I am looking at the road, that's the one thing I'm doing right now, that's my whole job in this car. You're not driving, why do your hands matter — sit on them if they're bothering you that much. And I'm not losing the plot over fog, it's a bit of mist off the water, that's what happens near a coast with a lighthouse on it, funnily enough. Sit back. Breathe. We'll be out of it in ten minutes or so, probably.

It's not the same ten minutes every time, that's just how driving works, distance keeps happening whether you like it or not. Fine — off. There. Silence, as requested, enjoy. It is dark, yeah, we're between towns, there's nothing out here but fields and your lighthouse apparently defying geography. Close your eyes if the dark's bothering you, I'll wake you up when there's something worth looking at, which at this rate could be a while.

Nobody said hit the water, don't make that my target. Sleep if you're sleeping, don't do the poetic collapse routine on your way out, save it. If it's a trick of the lens it's a trick of the lens, fine, either way it's not doing anything, it's a light on a stick, go to sleep. I'll deal with the gravel and the dark and whatever's left of the radio static on my own for a while.

That's the plan, I wasn't about to pull over for a bit of fog and a haunted lighthouse. Go on then, sleep, I've got it. I'll poke you if anything actually happens, which knowing this road, it won't.

Nobody's drowning, it's Ohio, driest thing for a hundred miles is probably my sense of humor at this point. Go to sleep. I've got the wheel, the fog, the lighthouse, all of it. Road doesn't end for a while yet.

We're not on grass, we're on the shoulder for two seconds because there's a slow truck, that's it, that's the whole drama. Eyes open too much for someone who was passing out thirty seconds ago. Sit back, we're fine, gravel's back under us in a second. Nothing's wrong, you just went from asleep to hypervigilant with nothing in between, that's a you thing, not a road thing.

It's not staring, lighthouses don't clock you personally, it's rotating same as it's always been, you're just tired and everything looks fixed when your eyes are tired, that's a real thing. Taillights smear because it's raining, we covered this. Nothing's changed except you keep waking yourself up to worry about a building. Close your eyes properly this time, actually close them, don't do the half thing where you're narrating what you see through your eyelashes.