Voyagers!

They drove two hours before the third stop.

- BRYAN WASHINGTON

They drove two hours before the third stop. Ronny had warned her about this, but Ronny talked a lot of shit. They'd paused an hour earlier, just outside Beltway 8, and then again in Katy but now, ninety minutes from San Antonio, his foot-tapping turned to pressing, then a solid series of stomps while he grasped at his seat belt.

Nigga, Cali said.

Told you, Ronny said. Tiny bladder.

You're a grown man.

And A.D.H.D.? Girl.

Let's at least make it past the city, Cali said.

I'm not stopping in Kerrville, Ronny said. No, ma'am.

Still time to catch a flight instead, Cali said.

Five minutes, Ronny said. Whataburger's right there! Attached to the gas station! Don't even have to stop the engine.

From Houston to Los Angeles would take nearly twenty-four hours of driving. Cali couldn't remember the last time she'd driven longer than half an hour. This was, Ronny said, a minor detail. They'd figure it out along the way. Take shifts. And now they were driving a rented Honda CR-V—garishly red, at Ronny’s insistence—with two suitcases for the days ahead.

Cali gave her friend a look before sighing and pulling off I-10. She'd only just parked when Ronny tumbled out the passenger door, spilling onto the pavement and into the gas station. Which left Cali in the car, scrolling on her cell.

She counted backward from a thousand. Maybe Ronny had changed his mind. Wouldn't be the first time. Probably calling a former fuck buddy to pick him up. Which meant Cali could go home, back to her bed in the Heights. Vic would be working and Andy was at camp, so she could spend the afternoon disassociating entirely, joyfully. Sneak in a joint or two. She was thinking about the K-dramas she'd catch up on, and the quesadillas she'd order, when Ronny emerged from the gas station with four bags and a pair of oversized plastic shades.