Clem says. “Home?” I ask. “You know what I mean.” Clem suddenly stops. We’re in front of an apartment window at sidewalk level. It’s a blazing rectangle of yellow in the dark night. “Look.” Inside the apartment, a large man in sweatpants reclines in an easy chair in front of a TV. A large yellow dog sleeps at his feet. Near them is a bookcase filled with books, and two paintings hang on the wall, one of a river banked by forest, the other of a snow-filled meadow. It strikes me that the last thing I would want in our car would be pictures of cold, damp forest or snow. I’d want a picture of—well, of someone in an easy chair, watching TV. Of the inside. “I don’t miss TV,” Clem says. “I don’t mind watching a show now and then at Aunt Evie’s, but it feels weird now, like I’m sticking my head in a box. I hate living in a car. I hate it. But when we get back to living inside, I’m going to do stuff. I’m going to start a business designing gear especially for cyclists, like a helmet that whistles when you hit a certain speed, or a handlebar attachment that records your laps.”
