We drove on and off together for five days. There was no stopping except for pee breaks on the side of the road and food from that too bright gas station and sleeping in shotgun.

Dexter started coughing on day two.

We had been in the gas station, arguing over Twinkies or Wagon Wheels. It was midnight and the inside if the minuscule store produced enough light that I was positive we had flown to the moon itself, except there was nothing beautiful about flies and greasy gas station attendants and the smell of stale urine and cigarettes. All the color had washed out of his face, mimicking that of the floors and the walls and the infamous fucking life. And, for a moment, he had to lean into the candy as he started coughing into the knock of his elbow, a gentle tremor which had never quite ended since taking over his limbs like a earth quake too deep to be felt directly. When he pulled his arm away, it was stained red.

His blue eyes had never looked so pale. He insisted, "I'm fine."

"Okay," I said, but he started driving faster that day.