“Find me the map, babe?” I say.
She nods in time with the radio and swivels, reaching into the back, torch in hand.
The suitcase catch is always a little sticky and she swears under her breath. She scrabbles around, emptying it out.
Finally, she finds the map and opens it up, grinning in triumph.
“Thirty miles until the turn,” she says.
She slips her shoes and sticks her bare feet up on the dashboard, tattooing a rhythm with her toes in the dust.
Neither of us mention the guy hogtied in the trunk.