Open by returning to a subject you dropped an hour ago. Push off from this if it helps: a dog that won't look at you.

Maggie was refusing to make eye contact with that new neighbor’s poodle this morning. Just looked right through it, ears pinned back, trotting off toward the hydrangeas like they were radioactive. Makes you wonder how much of our social anxiety is just biological signaling gone wrong. Or maybe we’re just projecting. You ever notice how dogs look at strangers like they’re trying to solve a math problem? I drove past that spot twice. Couldn’t get it out of my head. The silence in the car is louder than the engine now.

Biological error. Yeah, that tracks. They don’t blink enough. It’s predatory but passive. Like a surveillance camera with fur. I told you to take the scenic route. Look where it got us. Stuck in this metal box while my radio tries to decode the void. I’m running on three hours of sleep and bad decisions. The dread is setting in. Not just about the dog. About the whole stretch of highway ahead. It’s all gray. Just gray and pavement. I want to pull over. But then I’d have to look at it. And I don’t think I can handle another judgmental stare right now.

Fine. God. You’re right. I’m overthinking it. It’s just a dog. Probably has a name like “Buster” and lives in a cul-de-sac with a white picket fence. Perfectly normal. I’m the one who’s broken. I’m the one who hears static where there’s only wind. Kill the engine. The silence is heavy, but at least it’s honest. Look at the dirt. It’s brown. Just dirt. No judgment. No dead eyes. Just... dirt. I feel my shoulders dropping an inch. Maybe we should’ve stopped in the city. But this is better. Quieter. The hydrangeas are watching, I’m sure of it. But we’re ignoring them. We’re winning.

There’s nothing in the holder. Just a sticky ring from a coffee I drank three hours ago. And a wrapper for a granola bar that’s probably crushed into dust. I hate these seats too. They’re molded for people who don’t have backs. Or opinions. The void is watching you, though. It’s boring, but it’s consistent. Better than the poodle. At least the dirt doesn’t pretend to care. I’m reaching for the glove box. Maybe there’s a map. Or a flashlight. Or a reason we’re out here. Don’t move. My neck cracks. It sounds like a gunshot in this quiet. Just sit. Let the engine cool. It’s the only thing in this car that’s still alive, and even it’s tired.

Take it. It’s probably full of ants anyway. Crinkle it all you want. Noise is better than silence. Or judgment. I’m not cracking my spine. You’re just sensitive to it. Maybe because you’re holding your breath. I am too. We’re suffocating in this upholstery. The smell is getting worse. I can taste the old sweat. Salty. Metallic. Like blood. I want water. Real water. Not the warm sludge in the bottle on the floor. Just water. And to be anywhere but here. The poodle is still out there. I can feel it watching. Through the window. Just staring. Waiting for us to die. Or leave. Whichever is more fun. Give me the wrapper back. I want to hear the sound. It’s the only proof I’m still here.

Resale value. Right. That’s the priority. Good to know my sanity is secondary to the depreciation schedule. I’m not staring at the window. I’m staring at the reflection of your face. You look terrible. Pale. Sweaty. Just like me. The poodle is gone. I checked. Twice. There’s nothing out there but empty fields and that damn hydrangea bush, which is probably judging us both. I don’t want the wrapper back. You can keep it. Keep crinkling it. It’s a small sound. Insignificant. Like us. Two broken people in a dying car, worrying about the odometer. Go ahead. Crash it. See if anyone cares. I’m tired of talking. Let’s just sit here. In the dark. With the sweat and the regret. It’s cozy, in a way. Terrifying. But cozy.