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Hour Eight
Just after we pass into South Carolina, I catch Radar yawning and insist upon a
driver switch. I like driving, anyway—this vehicle may be a minivan, but it’s my
minivan. Radar scoots out of his seat and into the first bedroom, while I grab the
steering wheel and hold it steady, quickly stepping over the kitchen and into the
driver’s seat.
Traveling, I am finding, teaches you a lot of things about yourself. For
instance, I never thought myself to be the kind of person who pees into a mostly
empty bottle of Bluefin energy drink while driving through South Carolina at
seventy-seven miles per hour—but in fact I am that kind of person. Also, I never
previously knew that if you mix a lot of pee with a little Bluefin energy drink,
the result is this amazing incandescent turquoise color. It looks so pretty that I
want to put the cap on the bottle and leave it in the cup holder so Lacey and Ben
can see it when they wake up.
But Radar feels differently. “If you don’t throw that shit out the window right
now, I’m ending our eleven-year friendship,” he says.
“It’s not shit,” I say. “It’s pee.”
“Out,” he says. And so I litter. In the side-view mirror, I can see the bottle hit
the asphalt and burst open like a water balloon. Radar sees it, too.
“Oh, my God,” Radar says. “I hope that’s like one of those traumatic events
that is so damaging to my psyche that I just forget it ever happened.”
Hour Nine
I never previously knew that it is possible to become tired of eating GoFast
nutrition bars. But it is possible. I’m only two bites into my fourth of the day
when my stomach turns. I pull open the center console and stick it back inside.

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We refer to this part of the kitchen as the pantry.
“I wish we had some apples,” Radar said. “God, wouldn’t an apple taste good
right now?”
I sigh. Stupid fourth food group. Also, even though I stopped drinking
Bluefin a few hours ago, I still feel exceedingly twitchy.
“I still feel kinda twitchy,” I say.
“Yeah,” Radar says. “I can’t stop tapping my fingers.” I look down. He is
drumming his fingers silently against his knees. “I mean,” he says, “I actually
cannot stop.”
“Okay, yeah I’m not tired, so we’ll stay up till four and then we’ll get them
up and we’ll sleep till eight.”
“Okay,” he says. There is a pause. The road has emptied out now; there is
only me and the semitrucks, and I feel like my brain is processing information at
eleven thousand times its usual pace, and it occurs to me that what I’m doing is
very easy, that driving on the interstate is the easiest and most pleasant thing in
the world: all I have to do is stay in between the lines and make sure that no one
is too close to me and I am not too close to anyone and keep leaving. Maybe it
felt like this for her, too, but I could never feel like this alone.
Radar breaks the silence. “Well, if we’re not going to sleep until four . . .”
I finish his sentence. “Yeah, then we should probably just open another bottle
of Bluefin.”
And so we do.