Around midnight the Mass Pike begins to swim across our windshield, headlights and steetlights merge in to glowing globs that slide up the hood and through the glass, all astral and distant and only vaguely dangerous. My eyes slip down to the pale blue needle as it reveals the foot dozing on the pedal. 80mph. 84. 88. 90. Then dark. Trees. I feel my head begin to nod with the rhythm of stripes in the passing lane. “You’re sure you’re good to drive” asks David, his eyes already closed, head resting against the passenger door. It isn’t a question. “Sure,” I reply, squinting. I clench my jaw, bit my tongue. Athol, Gardener, Fitchburg. By Acton I’ve dug a little red half moon in to my own knuckle and the words on the exit sign doubled slightly. Copies, backups for later. The road narrows as we approach the city, or maybe it's time that is narrowing. Gas stations, stop lights, yield signs and street lights collect at the bottom of each minute, sloshing slightly as turn my head. I slow to eighty and feel my pupils tremble. Lexington, Arlington, Cambridge. Boston appears like a billboard of itself, flanks us, gallops alongside the car, staying the wheel and guiding us straight on in. Off at the Pru, then left, left, right, straight. I turn on to Columbus Ave with tears of sheer strain creeping down my cheeks. A stop sign. A light. A parking spot.

I push back my seat and sleep.