He said nothing during the ride. We sat in stony silence listening to the local classic rock station at low volume. A barely audible Bob Dylan sang about the injustices visited on Ruben Carter, but every time the engine got a little louder or we hit a noisy patch of road, he was drowned out. When he sang that part about taking him to a jail cell, goose bumps broke out on my arms. I felt like talking just to fill the half-silence, but I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. What does one talk about when heading off to some sort of vaguely illegal work? Instead, I concentrated on watching the scenery roll past the window. This was not easy. It was late, close to midnight, and Craig drove mostly on the unlit back roads. I saw trees and occasional houses. I tried to find road signs to at least get a general idea of where I was, so that I could have something of value to offer Christian, but I failed miserably. Once, I spotted a green street sign, bent at an angle so that only half of it could be seen—something-or-other Trail, which narrowed it down not at all.
