Andy’s thoughts were accompanied by the hum of the highway and the rush of the wind against his windows. He hadn’t even turned on the radio, preferring to drive in the clear blaze of his own anguish, the silence like a black hole, siphoning out the poison of despair. He was discouraged with their argument over religion, chagrined with his own need to be right, and yet saddened at Jessie’s position. What a difference a few years made. When they were kids, it was she who had lived on the edge of faith. At least once a week, like a ritual, they had ridden their bikes to the top of the hill in Palmer Lake. They exerted a lot of energy to make the journey, but the view was worth it, giving them the illusion of worldly dominance. Looking back down toward the southeast, they embraced a view of the Front Range, just as they had tonight. He remembered one afternoon in particular, when Jessie had been lost in her own thoughts, lost in a grief that would soon swallow her whole. He’d asked her why she was so preoccupied, and she’d turned on him with fire in her eyes.
