Brad kept to a moderate speed. Not too slow. Not too fast. Not too noticeable.If I had to put a tag on the mood in the car, it would be regretful. The station wagon was full of unspoken woulda-shoulda-coulda’s, sentiments that don’t travel well on a mission. Jean was close to tears, but she kept them in; I’ll give her that. Brad was stoic and stern, a displaced captain who might have been scheming for a comeback. Only Trina was upbeat, chattering into the night to no one in particular, jumping from thought to thought, each sentence a trapeze she could swing on to the next one. Flying high. One sleepless night, one missed pill, one glass of wine, one joint, one hit of crack or meth or Ecstasy, or one false move could take her back over the edge.Brad took a dark road. Jean leaned over the seat, retrieved a battered map from the glove compartment, and began navigating. Rather, she attempted to navigate. When we passed the same apple orchard twice in an hour, we were officially lost.
