Where Are We Going?
by Scott Dille

I'm seated behind the wheel of my Mercedes, staring first at a set of plastic reindeer grazing on the front lawn, and then at the bedroom window. I've been waiting for twenty minutes and consider honking the horn, going back inside, but instead rev the engine and turn down the heat. Her shadow moves across the curtain and then the room goes dark. I follow an image of her walking down the stairs, finishing what's left of a vodka tonic, searching coat pockets for some Nicorette gum.
I lean over to remove what looks like an arrowhead from the passenger seat and spill warm Glen Fidditch from a glass between my legs. The car door finally opens and I'm scrubbing at the stain with the palm of my hand.
'Already spilled something on yourself? Why don't you run in and change? Everything's clean. We have plenty of time.'�
She looks at me from outside the car and she's wearing a strapless cocktail dress and the skin on her arms is covered in goose pimples under a thin shawl. I'm about to reach out and touch her, my hand moves from the steering wheel, and she says, 'Well?'�
'No. It was bound to happen sooner or later,'� I say, retreating.
She is still outside, swaying on the tips of her heels, trying to confirm something in me, and the smell of vodka and perfume blow in with the cold night air, and the sudden anticipation that she'll cancel, say, 'maybe we should stay home', gives me hope. Instead, she hands me her purse and gets in. I notice a teepee in the neighbor's backyard and throw the car in reverse and back out onto the street, ignoring other signs warning me not to go - a dull pain in the back of my neck and a window that has been left open.

She tells me she's out of cigarettes and we need to stop somewhere, and when I don't say anything, she looks at herself in a compact, picking at her mascara.
'It's been almost three months. We agreed this is the right thing to do. This is a step, Howard, you have to get out of the house and take that first step.'�
'I just don't understand why we're going there. We don't really know any of these people,'� I say, knowing she won't understand.
'They happen to be good friends of ours. They always come to our parties,'� she explains, closes the compact, looks at me. 'Why bring this up now? We're in the car, Howard. I know what this is about and you have nothing to be scared of. You haven't had a moment for the past month. It won't happen again. Dr. Glen is convinced you've improved. He said you're ready'�
Janet scowls as we pass a Shell station, recovers, and in a memory of Dr. Glen, I'm unable to focus on anything but his tie and we've been discussing my feelings towards death and he recommends a book and writes me a prescription.
'It's time for you to be around people who care about you. What does Dr. Glen say? Caring isn't a one-way street. It's a part of the recovery process. You do want to get better, don't you?'� Janet asks.
She waits for my reply, brushing at a spot on her face. I nod, unsure where it would go if I didn't, and she kisses my shoulder, looks me in the eye and says, 'We have to trust that things are finally going in the right direction.'� She drops the compact into her purse. 'That's something else Gr. Glen says.'�

I spot a gas station up ahead, turn in, and park next to the entrance. I watch her buy a magazine and a pack of menthols. The teenage clerk behind the counter stares at her cleavage while she searches the bottom of her purse for change. From this distance, separated by the two pieces of glass between us, she could easily be someone I don't know. Someone I don't like. There are no other costumers and I search for another car in the small parking lot, trying to find hers, the one she'll leave in, and it becomes clear to me that this was one of those moments. The sliding doors part and she walks towards the Mercedes. I recognize her thin lips and a silver charm bracelet and finish what's left of the Glen Fidditch and start the engine.

She lights a cigarette and I crack the window. We both gaze silently at the lights from the ferries as we leave the city and pass Elliot Bay. On the 520 bridge, it's suddenly almost pitch black in the car and the wind off Lake Washington pushes against the side and I jerk the wheel. Janet turns on the interior light, becomes animated, tells me about a cruise to the South Pole and how much she loves traveling. Then, how she's looking into buying a green house or maybe a Finish steam sauna and she quotes a statistic on the longevity of Finish women. Then, how Val, Bruce's wife, has gone seriously downhill after the hysterectomy, and how she's addicted to anti-depressants and about to become a grandmother.
'Or maybe it's anti-anxiety. It's really anti-everything. Her psychologist thinks it's some sort of phantom menopause. And you thought your problems were bad,'� she says, laughs, stops. 'That's a joke.'�
She tells me how I've lost weight, but the right amount, and how sexy I look. She puts her hand on my thigh and gives it a little squeeze. 'Let's try to have a good time tonight. Can you promise to at least try and have a good time?'� She slides her hand past the wet Glen Fidditch on my thigh and takes my balls between her fingers. I feel myself getting hard and she smiles.
'Ok?'� she says, kissing my neck, my ear, then looking out the window. 'Do you know where we're going?
'Not a clue.'�
She unfolds a page of hand-written directions and I concentrate on taillights, changing lanes and weaving through eastbound traffic. 'Just tell me which exit to take.'�

We leave the freeway and follow the directions through small suburban communities that consist mostly of gated housing developments and strip malls. On distant patches of farmland, heavy construction machinery stands out against a pale moon. I slow when I see the well-lit sign for Sahalee Country Club and the nativity scene sprawled across the front grass. One of the wise men had tipped over onto a donkey and I watch two old men in wool ponchos set him upright. They don't appear to work for the golf course and one of them looks into the crib, places something inside, and I can just make out his winkled, dark features, his coarse silver ponytail, a feather, in the glow from the headlights.
'Isn't it cozy? Maybe we should live on a golf course,'� she comments.
There's a guardhouse up ahead and we drive under fir trees past stretches of fairway, and for some reason I count every rake laid out neatly next to the sand traps. I roll down the window and Janet leans over and tells the guard that we're guests of the Anderson's.
'And your name?'� he asks and I see him pick up a clipboard, mute a TV somewhere near his feet. When he turns around, I see he is young and healthy and his neck is thick and muscular and he can't be more than twenty.
'Munroe, Howard and Janet,'� I tell him and he begins flipping through a stack of papers.
'Is this place secure?'� I ask, causing him to look up. Janet sighs.
'I guess so. Not much goes on here. Last week some guy tried to break into a house on fifteen and we caught him out back in the pool. Still, most of the time it's pretty boring. Most nights aren't like that.'�
'Did you shoot him?'�
'Who? The guy in the pool? You're joking, right? I'm nineteen. We're only allowed to carry mace. This is, like, a golf course,'� he replies and something like five minutes goes by before he finds our names on the list and pushes a button raising the gate.
I ask him what happened to the guy.
'I don't know.'� He pauses, remembers something. 'But they had to drain the pool.'�
I roll up the window and Janet tells me the address and asks out loud, not necessarily to me, 'I wonder if insurance covers that?'� and I begin looking for street numbers and a place to park.

We step out of the Mercedes and Janet puts her arm around me, slides it under the back of my jacket and squeezes my side. I can feel how cold her hand is and I'm relieved when we finally get to the front steps and I move away from her and ring the bell.
A security camera films us from above the door, which suddenly opens, and both Jerry and Linda Anderson yell, 'Merry Christmas, Munroes.'� Jerry already has his hand extended and I take it in mine, force a smile and reply, 'Merry Christmas to you, too.'� When he sees me looking into the camera, aware that I'm not going to say anymore, he explains, 'It's relayed to the guard house. You can't be too sure these days.'� Pauses, gauges my expression. 'Say, if you're having troubles, I can give you a name. They hooked up the entire course in a weekend.'�
'We don't have a guard house.'�
He hesitates, reaches for my coat. 'Yeah, I guess you've got a point there. It seems like everyone does these days.'�
I kiss Linda on the cheek and she takes my face, holds it there, tells me she's been thinking about me, and lets go. Jerry hangs our coats on an antique hat rack, and when finished, stands rubbing his hands together, growing uncomfortable, starts to say something, pauses, thinks twice, and finally says, 'Bars downstairs, Howe. You look like you could use a bit of holiday cheer.'� He gives me a wink that's rehearsed and I'm wondering how long he's regretted having to do this and how relieved he must be that it's over.
'You read my mind,'� I reply on cue, returning his wink, looking for the stairs, remembering a Fourth of July party.
I begin moving into the room and Janet reaches out and grabs my arm.
'I'd like vodka tonic,' she says, looking at something over my shoulder. 'Since you're going down there.'�
The room is crowded and loud, and the only light comes from strings of paper lanterns near the ceiling. Someone's playing a piano and there's an ice sculpture of a dragon in the center of a large buffet table. I'm shaking hands and giving hugs and everyone tells me I look good. I reach a broad staircase and it's empty and I take my time walking down.
Near the wall, the steps have been lined with cotton, and a porcelain replica of Victorian London has been carefully arranged on top. Detailed figurines are dressed in heavy winter jackets and the buildings are lit and I feel the urge to escape inside and almost step on a horse drawn carriage. I pause at a small, dilapidated house and a woman's voice behind me says, 'That's Tiny Tim's house. Isn't it just darling?'� I pretend not to hear and descend the remaining stairs.
It's even more crowded around the bar and I avoid people and order a scotch and a vodka tonic. The whole party is being catered and the twenty-something woman making drinks tells me she ran out of tonic an hour ago. She's wearing a red silk robe and asks if Collins mix is all right and I nod. I take the drinks and push my way towards the stairs. A hand reaches out and it's Bruce and when he's sure it's me he says, 'Howard, how the hell are you?'�
'Happier,'� I say, holding up both drinks.
'Well it's about time. Val told me you haven't been feeling well,'� he states, genuinely concerned, lying, and then pretends to recall something. 'A kind of depression.'�
He touches on something our relationship can't handle and there's an awkward silence, and I'm about to tell him about Janet's drink, when he says, 'Shit, Howard, I don't know why I'm repeating this crap. It's what Val told me, and trust me, she's not one to rely on. Who the hell knows where she gets her information from.'�
I raise my eyes, shake my head, repeat, 'Who knows?'� I finish the scotch and order another, setting the vodka down on a coffee table. 'It's nothing. Too much work at the office. I'm just taking some time off.'�
'That's the spirit, ' he says, regaining his composure, putting his arm around me. 'And I have a once in a lifetime investment opportunity that'll help you take all the time off you need. Think of it as an early Christmas present from all of us.'� He sweeps a hand across the room.
He leads me over next to an exercise machine, some sort of treadmill, and a big screen TV is on behind it and there's a group of college students watching a documentary on Tibet and the is sound off.
'We're about to open the country's first wild west water park.'� He stops, takes a drink. 'Wet and Wild West Park of America. That names only tentative. It's my personal favorite. The location's perfect out near Snoqualmie. Close and convenient for families from Canada to Oregon. We cut overhead by taking water from the river, heat it, use it, and then put it right back. And to win over the environmentalists, we're using the same filtration system they use at the large parks in California. They say the technology today leaves the water cleaner than from the tap. Most of the studio artists and architects worked on Euro Disney. The whole thing is still coming in under half a million. Sales projections guarantee investment return within three years. We open this spring.'� He pauses, giving me time to take it in, hands me a cigar. 'You and Janet will be taking that time off in Cancun. Or are you Maui people?'�
I try to light the cigar and burn my finger. 'Maui people, I think.'�
'Aren't we all these days,'� he reflects, holding a match to my cigar and then misinterpreting a confused look. 'Since it's on reservation land, the whole park has a liquor and gambling permits. There's an indoor-outdoor pool bar, my idea, with underwater saloon doors.'� He's smiling now, inwardly congratulating himself, not realizing how vulnerable he is. 'All the seats are saddles.'�
'In the entire park?'�
His face tenses and he chews on the end of his cigar. 'No, just in the bar.'�
'That's what I thought.'�
'They're not that comfortable.'�
'I can imagine,'� I say and we're both nodding our heads, sipping our drinks.
A twenty-something hippie girl off to my right has on a pair of antlers and the tips have small red lights embedded in what looks like real bone. They start blinking and she catches me staring, says something to a twenty-something bearded guy drinking a beer. They both laugh and Bruce lowers his voice. 'Jerry owns fifteen percent. He and Linda just bought a beach condo in Cabo. Linda's not a Maui person.'�
He goes on to tell me about some skeletons they found while digging out one of the park's five indoor pools, and how it turns out the whole site used to be a Snoqualmie Indian burial ground and a real life medicine man supposedly cursed the entire park.
'He actually wore a head dress and threatened the foreman with a tomahawk. Local news captured the whole thing and then a group of liberals from the Pacific Northwest Historical Society filed an injunction to stop construction. One of the park's investors is a judge on the Board of Governors. They didn't stand a chance. What isn't a burial ground?'�
Bruce continues and I have trouble listening, distracted by a commercial for toothpaste. I don't notice he's finished and he waves to someone and slaps me on the back. He moves to go, handing me what looks like a brochure. 'Merry Christmas, Howard. And welcome to the club. We're all going to come out ahead on this one.'�
I try to find Janet's drink but it's too crowded so I order another one and make my way up the stairs. Janet's talking to Val and spots me first, waving, then motioning me over. Somehow, Janet has a fresh drink and I'm left standing with a glass in both hands as Val says, 'Merry Christmas,'� thinks twice about giving me a hug, decides not to. She has her back to Janet and doesn't see her roll her eyes, mouth the word help.
'I just ran into Bruce downstairs. He looks good. You both look good,'� I manage to get out.
'I've been trying to tell her that all night,'� Janet moans, tilting her head and placing a hand on Val's shoulder.
'It's true. She has been,'� Val says.
There's a lifeless film on the surface of Val's eyes, like a thin, milky cataract, and I'm wondering if she's aware of it.
'Well you do,'� I reply and we all sip our drinks.
'So what did Bruce have to say?'� Janet asks and I try hard to recall details from ten minutes ago.
'He told me about an investment opportunity we should consider. A water park near Snoqualmie.'�
Val suddenly looks nervous, unsure what to do with her hands, her right leg, an expression, and Janet laughs. 'I hope your husband isn't looking to make us rich again.'�
Val replies but it gets drowned out by a piano and distant chanting. Neither of us responds and her fingernails are dug into her arms and there's blood and Janet offers to help with a cocktail napkin and says, 'It's down the hall,'� and Val turns and walks away. I realize my cigar is out and Janet brushes hair from her face. After Val is somewhere over by the stairs, Janet leans over and whispers, 'I feel sorry for her. I really do. Bruce is going to hire a stress manager.'�
Janet points out a woman who is supposedly having an affair with Bruce, and Val keeps staring at me from across the room and is making no effort towards the hall and I turn my head to follow a group of waiters bringing in serving dishes of food that they neatly arrange on the buffet table. When they're finished, they gather at one end, waiting for Jerry, who moves next to them holding a wooden mallet and bangs a gong.
People clap.
The film on Val's eyes momentarily parts, like the shutter on a camera, and I glimpse into what it looks like to fall apart. What it looks like to be dead.
Janet sees something on my face and explains, 'Linda and Jerry's son, Mark, is engaged to a Korean girl who he met teaching English over there. He actually lived there for a year. But she's just darling, though none of us can pronounce her name. Linda wanted to make the holidays feel like home.'� Janet uses her drink to point to a Buddha carved out of a block of chocolate. 'A little over the top if you ask me. I'm not even sure they celebrate Christmas.'�
I notice her face in the glow from the lanterns, how smooth and unaffected she is by all this, how easily it slides off her. 'I think Linda said she belongs to a temple.'�
Janet leads me over to the table and I take a plate, and though I'm not hungry, pile it with sushi, fried rice, egg rolls, and some kind of pickled vegetable. I find a seat on the couch and my attention drifts between bits of bamboo, the stain on my pants, my empty glass, until someone sits next to me.
'Hello, Howard, I'm Joyce Cambell. Bob's wife. We met last year at Val and Bruce's 25th. At the Sheraton, remember?'�
I draw a blank. Try not to let it show. 'Val and Bruce's 25th at the Sheraton, they had a cover band. They sounded a lot like the Dr. Hook.'�
She bites her lip, pulls at an earring, begins slowly nodding her head. 'You may be right. But lets not talk about Val and Bruce. Janet just told me you two are considering a cruise to the South Pole. Don't. Bob and I just got back from the Holy Lands and it tops the list of cruise destinations. We just loved it,'� she bubbles, wipes her mouth, and I'm smiling and nodding my head.
The twenty-something bearded guy from downstairs sits next to Joyce and begins sticking food into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks.
'Tops the list of cruise destinations?'� I ask, and my voice sounds far away, and she's overly tan and loose folds of skin hang on her neck, and some of her foundation is flaking off a small, purple mole in the shape of Florida.
'Absolutely. We actually got to walk in the footsteps of Moses, Paul, and Jesus. Bob took a picture of me in front of the inn where Christ was born. I've never felt so'�'� She pauses for a moment, choosing the word carefully. 'Spiritual.'�
The bearded guy looks at her, head down, out of the corner of his eye.
Joyce continues, 'The accommodations were unbelievable, like Roman palaces. It's not the least bit dangerous. In fact, it really makes you wonder what all the fuss is about.'�
The bearded guy drops his chopsticks and shifts to face us. 'Wait a minute, you think innocent Palestinians being blown to bits by Israeli missiles is fuss? You think suicide bombings of markets in Jerusalem is fuss? You better not be trying to say it doesn't happen?'� His jaw quivers. A few pieces of rice hang in his beard.
'I didn't say it doesn't happen. I simply didn't see it,'� Joyce rebukes, noticeable shaken, and there's an uncomfortable silence that lasts until I set the plate of food on the floor, hold up my empty glass and announce, 'Looks like someone needs a refill.'�
Standing up, walking away, I hear the bearded guy say, 'Shit lady, there's a lot you don't see.'�


I'm somewhere into my seventh or ninth scotch, drifting in and out of conversations that I'm unable to follow, when I feel myself slipping and push my way towards a door and reach the kitchen. I stumble past caterers doing dishes and outside onto a brick patio. The silence hits me hard and I almost lose my balance. I sweep wet leaves from a lawn chair and sit down, sinking my head into thick, damp ribbons of nylon mesh. I close my eyes, try hard to stop my head from spinning, eventually succeed and open them.
There's a low wooden fence, painted white, strangled by patches of shriveled ivy, and beyond it is a window into the neighboring house. I can see into their living room and it looks warm, inviting, and there's a Christmas tree in one of the corners. Silver and gold packages are stacked under the tree's lower branches and a young couple is sitting on the sofa, their faces glowing green and blue from a TV screen I can't see. The woman has her arm around the man and she's resting her head on his chest and he strokes her hair. A boy appears, kisses them both, looks at the packages and then disappears upstairs. It's then that a memory comes flooding back to me and I'm ten or eleven and it's Christmas Eve and there are sirens and lights from somewhere down the street. I have the Chicken Pox and I'm not allowed to go and I wrap myself in a blanket, go anyways, and duck behind parked cars until I'm across from the burning house. There's a tremendous heat coming from the burning house and there are people gathered on the sidewalk, and I remember the lights from an ambulance reflected in the shattered front windows, and I remember a plastic snowman on the front lawn, melted and twisted into something horrible, and I remember waking up and smelling smoke and my older brother telling me I didn't miss anything. I remember overhearing my mother say at least they died in their sleep, and I remember the months lying under the covers, shaking.
I get up and search the patio until I find a gate that opens out onto the golf course. I hear voices and follow them across a fairway and into a stand of pine trees. The branches are low and the ground is littered with fallen needles and the voices stop when I trip over a broken golf club. I push myself to my knees and someone is holding a lighter and says, 'Are you all right, man?'� and helps me up.
More lighters are produced and I make out the bearded guy, the hippie girl, and seven or eight others. One of them is holding a bottle of J&B and the bearded guy sticks a pipe to his lips, inhales, and passes it to an Asian girl next to him. He blows out a cloud of smoke and coughs. 'I'm Mark.'�
I'm handed the bottle of J&B. 'Howard. Howard Munroe. I'm with the Anderson party.'�
The hippie girl takes the pipe and smiles. 'So are we. We've seen each other. It's Mark's house,'� she says, indicating the bearded guy.
Suddenly the Asian girl starts giggling. We all stare at her, watching her slowly lose control, and Mark asks her 'What's so funny?' and this makes her laugh harder, burying her head in her hands then falling to her knees.
A tall, clean-shaven guy in a wool sweater takes the bottle from me. 'Shit, man, do you think she smoked too much?'�
I'm not sure if he's talking to me so I shrug, put my hands in my pockets.
'Maybe we should get her some water,'� someone suggests.
'Would you like some water?'� Mark asks.
She shakes her head but continues laughing and Mark decides to take her for a walk and they leave. The pipe is passed around and the tall guy offers it to me. I refuse until it circles back a second time and I accept.
'You seem a bit detached, Howard,'� the hippie girl finally says and someone off to my right agrees, says, 'No doubt.'�
My entire list of replies contains repeating what was just said and I don't respond. A freezing wind passes through me and I work hard to focus my thoughts that begin sliding in and out of painful sequences: the blackouts, time spent comatose in front of the TV, standing in the walk-in closet fighting an urge to hang myself, lying paralyzed in bed for three days, visions of fire and ash and blackened steel, Janet finding me hiding in the basement, Janet calling a radio psychologist, the doctors, the medication, the ever-present void that I'm sinking into, the certainty that there is no salvation.
I hear myself wheezing and pull hard at my tie and the hippie girl asks if I'm feeling ok and I tell her I'm afraid to die. There's nothing but silence and darkness and someone asks for the lighter.
Mark returns carrying a flashlight and the Asian girl's laughter only comes in short random bursts, satisfying everyone, and the conversation turns towards house sitting, how good the weed is, the downside of using mouthwash in a bong, how much better the party was last year, how they wished they had some acid, how they're starving and should go back inside. As they leave, I hear the hippie girl say, 'What a trip.'�


The temperature has dropped considerably and the grass is dusted with ice crystals that scatter the light from an approaching golf cart. I don't know how long I've been alone, or when I moved out of the trees, or which green I'm on, and the golf cart pulls up and parks next to a bunker. A security man steps out and mumbles something into a walkie-talkie. He doesn't notice a fresh set of footprints in a sand trap and I tell him I'm with the Anderson party.
'I'm sorry, sir, but nobody is supposed to be on the course after dark. Club rules.'� He contemplates my appearance, searches for a further explanation, and adds, '�You wouldn't want to be mistaken for something you're not. Here, climb in. I'll give you a lift. It's easy to get lost from the back nine.'�
After he drops me off, I re-enter the patio and find the kitchen door locked. I walk to the front of the house and ring the bell. A shadow slips behind a rhododendron and Janet opens the door and I see that the room is empty and it's practically covered in a thin frost.
'Where have you been?'� she yells. 'Linda and Jerry went to bed an hour ago. Where the hell have you been? Mark said you were out on the golf course. That was two fucking hours ago. Shit, Howard, do you know how tired I am of this? Not to mention embarrassed. Bruce and Val asked if I wanted to go home with them. Where were you? No, I don't want to know. I just want to go the fuck home. I'm tired.'�
'I have to take a piss,'� I reply and she sees something in my face, something depressing, something void of substance, something already dead, and I don't blame her when she says, 'I've had enough. Obviously you don't want to improve. Things are just getting too permanent.'�
She waits for a response and I move past her down the hall.
I turn on the sink and stand in front of the toilet, staring first at an arrangement of dried flowers and then at a picture of Jerry and Linda standing next to a volcano. I hear Janet walk out of the house and a car door slam. I turn away from the toilet, continue pissing, and look at my penis, which seems more real in the mirror above the sink. Something falls out of my pocket and I bend down and pick-up the brochure Bruce gave me. There's a glossy color picture on the cover of a canoe racing down a water slide, and inside children are holding toy six-shooters and streams of water arc towards a park worker dressed like an Indian. It turns out to be an investors prospective and I find my name on the back under the five hundred dollar 'County Sheriff' donor list and see that Janet and I have a lifetime pass to the park and I am vaguely aware of what is taking place and I begin shivering as another cold wind blows through the room. The window is open and I 'm about to close it, reach for the handle, and it becomes clear to me that nothing can change the course of events about to take place, and it's clear we don't belong here.
I don't belong here.
A feather blows through the window and lands on the frozen puddle of piss in front of the sink.
What isn't a burial ground?
I finish, zip up my pants and wash my hands. Before leaving, I search Jerry's study until I find a set of keys on a plastic ring labeled Cabo. I find my coat and drop them in my pocket. Janet is slumped against the window when I get into the car and I start the engine and drive past the deserted guardhouse.
There's a rusted pick-up truck parked across the street from the club's entrance that I hadn't noticed when we arrived. The two old men are inside and one of them is wiping a knife with a Janet's shawl and the other is smoking and has the window rolled down. There are four or five men dressed in animal skins in the back of the truck and their faces are painted and the driver's eyes narrow and stare at me through thin folds of leathery skin. I pull out slowly onto Sahalee Drive and he wakes the guy next to him, steps out of the truck, and grabs something under the seat. I make out a tomahawk in his hand and he slips it under his poncho, motions everyone out of the truck, then turns to me and mouths the word go. I take my foot off the brake, and in the rearview mirror, watch them blend into the dark fairway.


'Where are we going?'�
She asks this as we're passing the exit for Portland and she's still slumped against the seat and looks confused, too pale, and though I can't seem to find a visible wound, she looks like she's lost a lot of blood. The sun is rising, a dim orange glow on the horizon, and she's staring blankly at endless rows of warehouse buildings, at the point where they meet the horizon.
'Where the fuck are we going,'� she screams, and when I don't answer she kicks the floor and then the dashboard, begins trembling and finds a map in the glove box. She spreads it out and begins looking at passing signs and sees her reflection in the windows of a passing Greyhound. A look of panic shows on her face and I suddenly have to turn the heat on. I concentrate on the freeway and the yellow lines, and now that she's awake, I begin searching for a place to dump her body.

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