The barbarian drinks too much coffee and still falls asleep in the passenger seat. You’re left for 854 miles by yourself. Two weeks ago, you’d mutually agreed that this trip would be a good idea. When the barbarian wakes up, make sure you smile gently and quickly look away. You don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. You pull over every few hours for gas and more coffee. At the rest stop, the barbarian keeps saying “next stop, I’ll drive,” and at the next stop you feel worried there’s not enough caffeine or podcasts about surprising facts to keep the barbarian awake, so you volunteer to drive again. Your legs feel like old people legs. You start to imagine spiders crawling up them slowly and drawing veins on the skin with grape-scented marker. In your hands you figure out the wheel’s smooth leather and remember the time you held the skull of a chipmunk, begging it to grow skin and fur so you could feel alive.