Sean looks at his dead cell phone in the cup holder, gutted of its battery, then the console clock. 10:21 PM. He imagines the line at the airport gate for the flight to San Francisco he was planning to take, boarding in progress now. They’re north of Los Angeles, no traces of big city in these parts, wooded areas on both sides of the highway, a few closed businesses, dead quiet other than the muted drone of scattered cars. A yellow Jeep Wrangler cruises on their right, four kids inside around his age, two boys, two girls, glossy New Year’s hats and beads on. He stares at them. One of the girls laughs, the shape of her smile reminding him of Natasha’s, lips plump even when curled. He thinks about the first time he had sex with her, the way she giggled when it took her three tries to unbutton her jeans in the dark. They drive north for about a half hour, now among the mountains of Ventura County, less vehicles on the road than before. Peering into the rearview, Sean tries to catch Dante’s attention.
