Four days out of Seattle and she’s tired of rest stops, mountains, hostile gas station attendants in Montana. Her back and hips are in agony from sleeping doubled in the car but she can’t afford anything else and it’s too cold to sleep outside. Gut burns with road food, the passenger seat well is choked with snack wrappers and empty pop cans; she’d happily stab a man for so much as a glimpse at a fresh tomato or an avocado.

Every dime goes to gas and by the evening of the fourth day she’s praying she has enough to get her to Chicago at least. Amanda’ll put her up for a few days, long enough to shower at least, and maybe let her have a couple of bucks in exchange for a hobo tattoo; she did Amanda’s last tattoo, an only slightly wobbly map of the L, but that was a while ago and they’ve added a couple of stations since then. Maybe a hundred bucks to update it? She should be so lucky.

The last day she skips eating, drives empty and hollow, lets the highway hypnosis take her through Minnesota and Wisconsin. What she’ll do when she hits the ocean or the gas runs out she leaves to the gods of the road; there’s nothing behind her but a decade of bad decisions.