He kept watching his wife's white face in the rear-view mirror. Now there was this bitter veil of resignation painted on it. He didn't know when the hysteria would scream through again, what she would try next, or when.
She had always been highly emotional, vital, active, a fighter. The Special kept moving, but it was still a suffocating cage. She needed to stop over somewhere, longer, much longer than the maximum eight hours. She needed treatment, a good long rest, a doctor's care—
She might need more than that. Complete freedom perhaps. She had always been an all-or-nothing gal. But he couldn't give her that.
Shimmering up ahead he saw the shack about fifty feet off the Freeway, saw the fluttering of colorful hand-woven rugs and blankets covered with ancient Indian symbols.
It wasn't an authorized stop, but he stopped. The car swayed slightly as he pressed the hydraulic.
From the bluish haze of the desert's tranquil breath a jackrabbit hobbled onto the Freeway's fringe. It froze. Then with a squeal it scrambled back into the dust to escape the thing hurtling toward it out of the rising sun.
Stan jumped out. The dust burned. There was a flat heavy violence to the blast of morning sun on his face. He looked in through the rear window of the car.
"You'll be okay, honey." Her face was feverish. Sweat stood out on her forehead. She didn't look at him.
"It's too late," she said. "We're dead, Stan. Moving all the time. But not alive."