How much further is it, actually — and I want a real answer, not the sign-based estimate, because the last three signs have been lying to us in increasingly personal ways.
Also, unrelated, but I've been staring at that envelope in the door pocket for forty minutes and I need to say something about handwriting. Yours is doing something aggressive. The Y's especially. Like each one is trying to leave the sentence early.
Twenty miles. Maybe. The GPS is just guessing now, feeding me hope to keep me driving. It’s getting dark, Nell. Look, the Ys are just how I write. You always said they were too sharp, too eager to cut. I didn’t change them for you. I changed nothing. The road is straight here. Just watch the deer. I’m trying to read the next sign but my eyes are burning. Stop looking at the envelope. It’s just a letter. It’s not a confession.
Twenty miles is doing a lot of heavy lifting for a word that used to mean twenty miles. I don't trust it anymore. I don't trust the sign, I don't trust the GPS, and now apparently I can't trust the pocket of the door either, because you've made "it's just a letter" sound like the setup to a confession, which — thank you, very smooth.
Fine. I'll watch the deer. I'll watch the road. I'm a model of restraint over here. But you brought up the Y's, not me, don't act like I ambushed you with your own handwriting.
And it's not dark yet. It's dusk. There's a difference and you know it, you're just trying to make this drive sound more dramatic than a Tuesday deserves.
Dusk is just darkness waiting its turn. You’re nitpicking because you’re scared of the letter. I wrote those Ys like that because I was angry then. And I’m angry now. The GPS says ten minutes but I’ve been driving for four hours. My neck hurts. Look at the road, Nell. Please. The Ys don’t matter. The road matters. I’m tired of explaining why I write sharp letters. It’s not a code. It’s just my hand. Stop analyzing my loops and look at the asphalt. I need you to look at the road.
I am looking at the road. I've been looking at the road since Ohio, or wherever we technically stopped being in a state I recognized. You're the one who brought up angry Ys and then told me not to analyze them, which is a very specific kind of instruction to give someone, Ivo. That's like handing someone a locked box and telling them not to wonder what's in it.
Ten minutes according to a machine that's lied to us twice already tonight. I'll believe it when I see a building.
And my neck's fine, thanks for asking, since nobody did. I'm just sitting here being cargo. Very restful. Very quiet. Watching asphalt like you told me to.
It’s not a locked box. It’s just paper. You’re projecting. My neck is killing me. I stopped at a gas station an hour ago but forgot to buy water. Now my throat feels like sandpaper. Ten minutes. If the GPS is lying again, I’m going to scream. I’m not asking you to analyze my handwriting because there’s nothing to analyze. It’s just ink. The asphalt is gray. The sky is purple. Stop talking about Ohio. I don’t remember Ohio. I only remember the last sign. It said five miles. It was wrong. I hate being wrong. Drive me out of this head.
Ivo. You've said "I don't remember Ohio" and "drive me out of this head" in the same breath as complaining about your throat, and I don't love the shape that's making. Pull over. Not dramatically, just — there's a gravel shoulder up here, take it, put the car in park.
I don't care about the GPS anymore. I don't care about the sign. You haven't had water in an hour and your neck hurts and you're mixing up states, that's not projection, that's just facts stacking up in a way I'd like to address before we hit whatever's ten-slash-thirty-five miles away.
I've got half a bottle in my bag. Warm, tastes like plastic, drink it anyway. I'll drive the rest. Pull over first. I mean it.
No. I can’t stop. If I stop, I have to read the letter. Now. The gravel shoulder is too far up. My neck is stiff but manageable. Keep the water. You need it more than I do. Or maybe you do. I don’t know anymore. The road is blurring. Is that the exit or just my vision failing? You think you can drive? You got lost in Chicago. Don’t pretend you have the skills. I’m handling this. I’m always handling this. Until I’m not. Hand me the bottle. Just let me have the water. Don’t talk about pulling over.
No, Ivo — listen to me. Your vision is blurring and you're arguing with me about who got lost in Chicago three years ago, that's not a rebuttal, that's a distraction technique and I know it because I invented distraction techniques. Pull the car over now. Not the exit, not further up, right here, gravel, grass, whatever's under the tires.
I don't care about the letter. Nobody cares about the letter right now except you and only because your brain is using it as an excuse to keep white-knuckling a wheel while you can't see straight.
Take your foot off the gas. I mean it. Slow down first, then stop, then we deal with water and neck and everything else sitting still, with the hazards on, not doing seventy on a road you just said you can't see.
You’re shouting. I can’t hear you over the engine. The gravel is right there. I see the grass. My foot is moving off the gas but the inertia is heavy. The wheel is slippery. I’m hitting the brakes. Hard. The car is sliding. Nels, watch out. It’s going to stop. I’m stopping. The engine is sputtering. Wait. The hazards are clicking. I can hear them. That’s good. I’m taking my foot off. My hands are shaking. Give me the water. Just give it to me. I need it. I’m out of the car. The air is cold. I’m drinking. It’s warm. It’s plastic. It’s saving my life.
Okay. Okay, good, you're out, you're drinking, the car's stopped — breathe, actually breathe, not the shallow thing you're doing. In through the nose. I know you hate when I coach breathing like some overpriced app but do it anyway.
I'm coming around to your side. Don't sit back down yet. Stand there a second, let your legs remember what ground feels like.
We're not driving again for a while. I don't care what the GPS says about ten minutes, ten minutes isn't happening, we're sitting on this shoulder until your hands stop shaking and you've had more than four warm gulps of gas station water. I've got a granola bar somewhere that's probably fossilized but it's protein, technically.
The letter's not going anywhere. Neither are we, apparently. That's fine. That's actually fine.
My hands are still vibrating. Like the engine. I can feel the hum in my fingertips. I hate this. I look foolish standing here on the gravel, dirt in my shoes. The air is colder than I thought. You’re right about the breathing. I’m doing it. In. Out. It doesn’t help. The granola bar? I don’t care about protein. I care that we stopped. I care that the GPS is silent. It’s useless now. Just static. Look at the road. It’s empty. No deer. No signs. Just gray asphalt fading into the dark. I’m tired, Nell. Not sleepy. Tired. Bone deep. I didn’t want to stop. Stopping means admitting I don’t know where we are. But I’m here. I’m on the ground. It feels solid. Unforgiving. Good. Keep the water bottle. I need both hands for something else.
Both hands for what — Ivo, look at me, not the road, not the static, me. If you're reaching for the letter right now I'm taking it and sitting on it, I mean that literally, I will sit on an envelope for as long as it takes.
You don't look foolish. You look like a person who's been white-knuckling a wheel for four hours on no water and too much silence, which is a normal amount of foolish, the human kind.
We're not figuring out where we are tonight. Not the road kind, not the other kind you keep almost saying and then swerving away from, pun regretted immediately. Ground's solid, you said so yourself. Stay on it a minute. Hands can shake. That's allowed. I'm not going anywhere, the car isn't going anywhere, the letter especially isn't going anywhere.
Stop threatening to sit on the envelope. It’s just paper, Nell. I’m not reaching for it. My hands are shaking because I haven’t eaten in six hours. The granola bar. You said something about protein. Give it to me. I’m not looking at the road. I’m looking at you. You’re wearing that blue jacket. The one with the missing button. I noticed it three states ago. I didn’t say anything. I was too busy watching the Ys. The shaking is stopping. A little. My legs feel like jelly. Heavy, dead jelly. Sit down next to me. On the gravel. I don’t care about the dirt. I just need to not be standing alone anymore. The silence is loud. It’s ringing in my ears. Is that tinnitus or just exhaustion? Tell me it’s exhaustion.
It's exhaustion. I'm not a doctor, I sell insurance for a living, badly, but I'm fairly confident six hours without food plus four hours of gripping a wheel like it insulted your mother produces a ringing sound that isn't permanent damage. Probably.
Here. Granola bar, slightly bent, tastes like cardboard and regret, eat it anyway.
Sitting. Gravel's cold, worse than I expected, we'll both have dents in our jeans for a week. Missing the button since March, by the way, not three states ago originally, it's been an ongoing tragedy nobody mentions.
You don't have to not be standing alone. I'm right here, jelly legs and all, ringing ears and all. We're just two idiots on a shoulder in the dark eating a bar that expired probably before either of us learned to drive.
March? You’re holding it against me from March? That’s petty. And cold. The gravel is biting through my pants. I’m eating the bar. It’s dry. It sticks to the roof of my mouth. I have to chase it with the plastic water. It’s warm. It’s perfect. You sit on the envelope? Fine. Keep it. I’m not touching it. Not tonight. My hands are steady now. Mostly. Just a tremor. The ringing is fading. Good. I’m glad it’s exhaustion. I was worried I was losing my mind. Losing my mind is quieter than this. You sold insurance badly? At least you’re employed. I hate my job. The spreadsheet hurts my eyes. Look at it. Just look at it. It’s mindless. Safe. I want that. I want to be bored. I want to be blind to the Ys.
I'm not holding it against you, I'm just informing you of a timeline, there's a difference, one is petty and one is journalism.
Employed's generous. Badly is doing a lot of work in that sentence — I sold a man a policy last month that covered his boat, which he does not own, has never owned, was very confused to learn he was now insured for. Mindless sounds nice from here. Mindless sounds like a vacation.
The Ys aren't the enemy, Ivo. You keep talking about them like they're a verdict. They're just pen strokes. Angry ones, sure, but ink dries, letters get old, people change their handwriting eventually whether they mean to or not.
Eat the rest of the bar. Chase it. We'll sit here till the tremor's gone completely, not mostly, and then I'm driving, and you're not arguing about it.
Journalism. Right. You’re a detective now. And a liar about the boat. Who buys boat insurance for a boat they don’t have? Did he want to crash it? Or did you just want the commission? Don’t change the subject with your wit. I’m eating the rest. It’s choking me. The water helps. The tremor is slowing down. My fingers are still twitching. Just a little. You’re driving? Fine. But if you crash, I’m blaming you. And I’m not talking about the Ys. They’re just ink. I know that. But you writing them… it felt like you were trying to puncture something. Me? The car? The silence? I don’t know. Sit closer. The cold is getting in. I’m not arguing about driving. I’m too tired to argue. Just sit. Don’t move. Let the darkness settle. It’s safer here than on the road. Safer than inside my head.
I wasn't trying to puncture anything, I was trying to fill out a form, the Ys are Ys, stop making my handwriting a personality test.
It's getting properly cold though, that's not a metaphor, that's my hands turning a color. We can't just sit on gravel till sunrise being tragic figures in someone's screenplay, we've got a whole ten-or-thirty-five miles left and a car that still runs.
Up. Come on. I'll drive, you navigate, which mostly means you stare at a dead GPS and narrate its silence to me, very useful division of labor. Give me the keys before your fingers seize up completely.
And no boat crashing jokes while I'm behind the wheel, I've heard enough about my competence for one shoulder-stop. We're finishing this drive tonight, not turning it into a campout.
My fingers aren’t seizing. They’re just cold. You’re shivering. Your teeth are chattering. That’s not acting. Give me the keys. No. Wait. If I give you the keys, I have to look at the road. I can’t look at the road. The darkness is thick. It’s like ink. Your Ys. I’m tired of Ys. Take the keys. I’m up. My legs are numb. The gravel is sticking to my socks. The car looks small. I’m walking to the passenger side. You’re already there. I’m handing them over. Don’t drop them. Don’t look at the envelope. Drive. Just drive. I’ll close my eyes. I’ll listen to the engine. It’s the only truth left. Start it. Please. Start it.
Got them. Not dropping anything, I have exactly one job now and it's this.
In. Seatbelt — yes, even now, especially now. Close your eyes if you want, I'll handle the dark, that's apparently my department tonight along with cardiovascular reassurance and granola bar distribution.
Engine's turning over — there, hear that, it caught first try, unlike you an hour ago threatening to scream at inanimate machinery. Hazards off. Mirrors. Gravel crunching under us as we pull back on.
I'm not looking at the envelope. It's staying in the door pocket where it's been minding its own business this whole time, honestly more patient than either of us.
Ten miles, thirty-five miles, whatever it actually is — we'll find out when we find out. Just breathe. Watch the dark blur past instead of at it. I've got the wheel.
The engine sounds different. Smoother. Less like it’s fighting me. You’re driving carefully. Too carefully? Or just finally paying attention? I’m looking at the blur. It’s not aggressive. It’s just motion. Yellow lines. Gray shoulders. The darkness is just a wall now, not a mouth. My eyes are heavy. The granola bar is settling in my stomach. Warm. Heavy. Safe. You’re humming. Is that a song? It’s off-key. I don’t care. It’s better than the silence. The envelope is still there. I can feel it in my peripheral vision. But it’s not calling to me. Not tonight. Just drive, Nell. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. The road is long. But you’re holding the wheel. That’s enough. Keep going. Don’t look back.