Open by asking how much further. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

Three hours. Maybe four. I dropped the GPS somewhere past the turnoff, or maybe it just gave up on me. The playlist is garbage. Some indie folk band that thinks silence is profound. It’s just quiet. You want noise? I can turn on the radio. Static. Ads for mattress stores. It’s better than this.

And I’m not judging you. I’m just tired. My back hurts from sitting in this seat that was designed for people who don’t weigh as much as we do. We passed a diner an hour ago. Blue neon. I didn’t stop because I was afraid they’d be closed. They’re always closed in these places. The middle of nowhere isn’t romantic, Gil. It’s just empty. And loud. In that specific, ringing way.

Fine. Radio on. ...Still just a phone number for a lawyer in Toledo. Of course. They’re all lawyers here. Maybe try the station before? That one with the country music? No, that was worse. Singing about trucks. I miss when we could just listen to the engine. Or talk. Real talk. Not this... static. You’re right. We are lost. But if we turn back now, we admit it. And I can’t admit it. Not yet. The seat’s stiff. My neck feels like it’s made of concrete. Did you see that bird? On the wire. Just sitting there. Watching us fail. Or maybe it was a crow. Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same color.

Warm water tastes like plastic. You know that. It’s been sitting there since we left the gas station, which was… whenever. The cup holder’s broken, by the way. It tips if you look at it wrong. I didn’t tip it. Yet.

You’re driving? Great. You steer like a grandmother. But sure. Hand over the keys. I need to stretch. Or maybe just lie down. The seat doesn’t recline enough. It’s a design flaw. Or a feature. “Athletic posture.” Whatever. It hurts.

That bird. It was a crow. I saw it blink. Slowly. Judging us. Or maybe it was just waiting for the roadkill. You always say I’m too cynical. But look at us. Gray road. Bad water. A lawyer we’ll never call. This isn’t a movie. There’s no montage. Just this. The long, boring stretch of nothing. Pass the water. Even if it tastes like the inside of a sweatshirt.

Your back is fine. Right. You haven’t moved your shoulders in forty miles. They’re up by your ears. I can see them twitching.

I’m not doing the tire check. It’s dark. There’s nothing to see but oil stains and despair. And I’m not flipping a coin. I hate gambling. Small stakes, big regrets. You scream if you want. No one’s coming to save us. The lawyer in Toledo is probably asleep. Or dead.

Yellow line. Got it. Straight ahead. Into the void. It’s mesmerizing, in a way. Like staring into a furnace. But you don’t. You look at the trees. Black shapes against blacker sky. They’re closing in. Or we’re getting closer to them. Same difference. Drink your plastic water. It’s the only thing keeping you human right now. The rest is just instinct. Bad instinct.

My eyes are on the road, Gil. Always on the road. You’re the one radiating heat like a radiator. It’s weird. You’re not even breathing right. Just… holding it. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or for me to do something stupid. Like actually admit we need a break.

Trees are just trees. Sure. Because nothing in this universe is watching us. Nothing is waiting. Just… dead wood and silence. You want straight? Fine. Straight is boring. Straight is what happens when you stop looking. But I’m looking. I see the glint. Up ahead. Headlights? No. Reflection. From a sign. Or a deer. Or a ghost. Whatever. Keep driving. Your shoulders can touch your ears for all I care. Just don’t hit the deer. I’m not cleaning up the windshield. That’s on you. Wet water. Good luck with that.

Cold. Of course it’s cold. The heater’s broken. I told you that. You just ignored it because you were too busy judging the trees. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m breathing. It’s a feature, not a bug. You want to talk about fault? Sure. Let’s talk about it. I’m driving. You’re navigating. We’re a team. A dysfunctional, frozen, plastic-water-drinking team.

Billboard. Right. Probably for a timeshare in the middle of nowhere. “Buy now, regret forever.” Classic.

Drink my plastic? It’s your bottle. But sure. I’ll sip it. Slowly. Like it’s wine. Like we’re on a date. Remember dates? Before the silence. Before the static. Now it’s just us and the yellow line. And the cold. And the fear that we’ll never get there. But we will. We always do. Eventually. Or we don’t. And that’s the part you’re afraid of. Not the deer. The not-getting-there. The end of the road. Without a sign. Just… stop.

Bacteria? Please. I’ve swallowed worse in this car. The cup holder’s a biohazard zone. You want the keys? Here. Take them. I’m done pretending I know where Toledo is. Or if it’s even left of here. My “athlete posture” is currently occupying the passenger seat, which is infinitely more honest than your driver’s seat delusion.

You drive. If we hit a tree, I’m not apologizing. I’ll just sit there. Watch the leaves flutter against the glass. Like a monster movie. But worse. Because it’s real. And boring. And you’re shivering. Just admit it. It’s cold. The heater’s dead. We’re freezing in a tin can, heading nowhere, listening to a lawyer we’ll never hire.

Take the wheel, Gil. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore. The water’s gone. The bottle’s empty. Just like the road ahead. Go.

Jacket’s in the back. You’re going to have to turn around. Or stretch. Which you can’t do without your shoulders falling off. Fine. I’ll get it. But don’t pretend you’re not grateful. You’re shivering. Actually shivering. It’s pathetic.

The jacket smells like old cigarettes and despair. Put it on. Or don’t. Freezing is better than dying of embarrassment.

I’m watching the glint. It’s a billboard. “Serenity Now.” Ironic. We’re not serene. We’re terrified. And cold. And stuck in a car with a guy who thinks he’s in control. He’s not. The road doesn’t care. The trees don’t care. The lawyer in Toledo definitely doesn’t care.

Keep driving. Straight. Don’t hit the deer. Or the billboard. Or the cliff. Whichever is coming. I’m just sitting here. Hands on lap. Watching you fail. Beautifully.

Here. Catch. Try not to sneeze on the upholstery. It’s already ruined.

Serenity is a joke, yeah. But "Now" is real. This is Now. Cold. Stuck. Smelling like a pawn shop. You’re driving. I’m watching. Not you. The road. The asphalt. The cracks. Those are the only things that matter.

Deer. Got it. I’ll scream. Loudly. Hopefully it scares it off. Or scares us into another lane. Either works.

You said "tonight." That’s a word. A heavy one. Like "forever" or "never." I hate it. It implies there’s an after. A morning. Light. Which means more driving. More static. More plastic water.

Keep your eyes on the center line, Gil. Don’t look at me. I’m not a landmark. I’m just noise. The same noise as the engine. The same noise as the wind. Just… keep moving. Until the noise stops. Or we do. Whichever comes first. I’m ready for either. Honestly.

Damp. Because you left the window cracked. For “air.” There is no air out there. Just cold. And the smell of my own fear, apparently.

Paint. Yes. Just paint. Not a vein of the earth. Not a scar. Just some guy with a brush twenty years ago. Boring. Safe.

You’re listening to the engine. Good. It’s honest. It’s dying. Can you hear it? That rattle? Higher up. Past the idle. It’s coughing. Like me. Like us.

Mornings. They demand coffee. They demand answers. They demand we pretend we’re okay. I hate them too. They’re loud. Too bright. They expose the dust motes. The cracks in the dash. The fact that we didn’t change the oil.

Cliff. Quick. Maybe. Or maybe just a long fall. And then silence. Real silence. Not this static. Not this judgment. Just… nothing.

I’m staring at the cracks. They’re getting bigger. Or we’re getting faster. Which is it? I can’t tell. The engine is loud. But it’s fading. Or I’m going deaf. Both work. Keep driving, Gil. Before the paint runs out.

Roll it up. Cold’s creeping in anyway. The damp jacket isn’t helping. It’s just heavy. Like guilt. You say it’s a loose belt. Fine. I’ll believe you. Because believing the car is dying is easier than believing I’m losing my mind.

Cracks. Paint. Real. Yes. Real is good. Real doesn’t lie. Real doesn’t whisper about cliffs.

I’m not fading. I’m just… dimming. Like a bulb in a hallway you never use. You’re bright. Angry. Alive. That’s good. Keep that. I’ll take the shadows.

Don’t tell me to stop narrating. It’s the only thing keeping the silence at bay. If I stop talking, you’ll hear the engine really die. And then what? We sit in the dark? In the damp? With the smell of old smoke and wet wool?

Fine. I’ll stop. For now. Watch the paint, Gil. It’s black. It’s gray. It’s just asphalt. Nothing else.

But if that belt snaps… don’t blame me. I told you. I told you. Loudly. You just wanted the quiet. Now you have it. Enjoy it. It’s expensive.

Rag’s in the glove box. Stiff. Smells like mildew. Take it. Wipe your hands. Or don’t. Sweat makes the wheel slippery. That’s physics. Not my prophecy.

You’re bored. Fine. Boredom is honest. At least it doesn’t pretend to care. I’m not playing prophet. I’m just… observant. Like that crow. Eating its bug. Ignoring the tin can shaking apart around it.

Push it. Sure. You and me. In the dark. With a broken heater. It’ll be great. A team effort. A symphony of failure.

But the belt? If it snaps, we’re not pushing. We’re coasting. Into the ditch. Or the cliff. Whichever is closer. The paint will still be there. Black ink on gray. Waiting for us to crash into it.

I’m watching the cracks. They’re deep. Deep enough to swallow a foot. Or a soul. Doesn’t matter. Just keep driving, Gil. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your hands on the wheel. And pray to whatever god listens to loose belts that it holds. Because I’m done praying. I’m just watching. And waiting. For the snap.

Kick it? You want me to kick the dashboard? Fine. Thud. There. Happy? The rag’s in your lap. Or under it. I didn’t look. I’m watching the cracks. Deep. Dark. Like eyes.

Dead weight. Sure. I’m heavy. I’ve always been heavy. Gravity’s my friend. Or my enemy. Depending on the day. You’ll explain it to the cop. Sure. I’ll sit there. Smiling. Holding the rag. Waiting for the verdict.

Quiet. Yes. I’m quiet. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? The silence. It’s not peaceful. It’s waiting. Like the crow. Like the cliff.

Don’t ruin it by breathing too loud. Right. I’ll hold my breath. Until I pass out. Or until the belt snaps. Whichever comes first.

The paint is black. The asphalt is gray. The road is straight. And we are moving. Forward. Into the nothing. You’re driving. I’m watching. And the rag is damp. Just like everything else.

Breathe, Gil. It’s what we do. Until we don’t.

I’m breathing. Obviously. Holding my breath doesn’t make me lighter; it makes me faint. And I’m not fainting. Not yet.

The dash shook. Just a little. Like a tooth grinding. You feel it. Good. That means you’re awake. Or awake enough to panic.

Mildew and defeat. Accurate. Put it on the wheel. Or in your lap. Wherever. Just don’t drop it. The floor mats are already a swamp.

Gray. Yes. Just gray. No cliffs. No death rattles. Just asphalt. And the rattle. Keeping it together. I am together. Mostly. My eyes are open. My hands are… well, they’re in my lap, like you wanted. Still.

You’re driving into the nothing. Fine. I’m coming with you. In the passenger seat. Watching the line. The black ink. The gray world.

Breathe, Gil. Both of us. In. Out. Until the belt snaps. Or until we arrive. Whichever is less likely.

The cop won’t care about the rag. He’ll care about the speed. Or the lack of one. We’re slow. Too slow. Or just right for this hell.

Keep going. Don’t look back. There’s nothing there. Just empty air and the ghost of a diner we didn’t stop at.

I’m not passing out. I’m just… resting my eyes. Briefly.

Steam? There’s no steam. Just condensation from your breathing and my hate. I’ll wipe it. Here. Take the rag. It’s damp, but it’ll take the blur.

Suspension. Right. Because the car’s sinking. Into the road. Like a stone. You’re tired, Gil. Your hands are slippery on the wheel. Sweaty. Slippery. Dangerous.

I’m not passing out. I’m watching. My eyes are open. Wide. Staring at your back. At the headrest. At the crack in the plastic.

Dump me in the ditch. Go ahead. I’ll sit in the mud. With the crows. They’re friendly. They eat bugs. They don’t care if you’re alive.

Breathe loudly. Loudly. Like a bellows. Like a dying animal. Hhhhuuuuhh. There. Satisfied? I’m here. Heavy. Real. Smelling like mildew and fear.

Keep driving. The line is straight. The road is hard. The car is broken. But we’re moving. Or we’re falling. Same thing, eventually.

Don’t look at me. Look at the road. The gray. The black ink. The nothing.

I’m breathing. Loudly. For you. Because you need to know I’m still here. Even if I’m just noise. Even if I’m just dead weight.

Keep going. Until the wheels fall off. Or until you do. Whichever comes first.

Leaky pipe. Fine. I’ll hold it in. My chest feels tight anyway. Like the mildew is growing inside me.

Knuckles white. You’re going to cramp. Then you’ll let go. And we’ll drift. Into the black ink. Or the ditch.

I’m looking at the cracks. They’re deep. Wide. Like mouths. Waiting.

You’re not a headrest. You’re a wall. A sweaty, trembling wall. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking past you. At the road. At the nothing.

Wheels. Together. Sure. I’ll hold them. With my hands. Or my teeth. Whatever it takes.

Night. Just night. No thinking. No memories of diners. No lawyers. No crows. Just the rhythm. The gray. The black. The rattle.

Drive.

I’m here. Quiet now. Silent as the grave. Or the ditch.

Keep your hands on the wheel, Gil. White knuckles. White fear.

We’re damp. We’re mildewy. We’re alive.

For now.

Drive.

Fine. I’m breathing. Nose in. Mouth out. Hhhhuuuuh. There. Satisfied? I’m not a ghost. I’m just… fading. Like the gray.

Straight road. Steady nothing. Good. Stability is rare. Usually it’s just curves. And cliffs. And lawyers.

You’re driving. I’m breathing. That’s the deal. Simple. Clean. No mildew. No damp rags. Just air. And asphalt.

If I look at you, you drop the wheel. Okay. I won’t look. I’ll look at the gray. The endless, boring, comforting gray.

Drive, Gil. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just drive.

The rattle is loud. But it’s consistent. A rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Or a clock. Ticking down.

I’m holding my breath again? No. I’m exhaling. Slowly. Letting the air go. Letting the fear go.

It’s just night. Just us. Just the road.

Keep going. Into the dark. Into the light. Whichever is there.

I’m watching. Quietly. Lovingly. Even if I don’t love you. I love the quiet.

Drive.

Fine. Hate it then. Hate the damp. Hate the rattle. Hate my breathing. It’s the only thing keeping you alive right now. The noise. The annoyance. It’s fuel. Good. Use it.

Love is soft. Love is weak. You’re right. I’m not soft. I’m hard. Like the seat. Like the dash. Like the cold creeping into my bones.

Heartbeat. Yes. The rattle is the pulse. Don’t let it stop. If it stops, we’re just metal. Just scrap. Waiting for the tow truck. Or the decay.

I’m watching. Gray. Just gray. No meaning. No light. Just the relentless, boring, beautiful gray of the road.

Breathe loudly. Hhhhuuuuh. Loud enough to drown out the thoughts? The ones about the cliff? The ones about the diner? The ones about the lawyer in Toledo?

Drive, Gil. Drive through the hate. Drive through the damp. Drive through the mildew.

I’m here. Breathing. Watching. Waiting for the belt to snap. Or the gray to end.

Which comes first? I don’t know. I’m not thinking. I’m just breathing. Loudly. For you.

Keep your hands white. Keep your eyes forward. Don’t look back.

There’s nothing back there. Just the road we crossed. And the rain that never fell.

Drive.