They fixed it with duct tape and a prayer. The man refused money. “Just drive safe,” he said. “And turn off that check engine light if it starts blinking. That’s when you worry.”
In Butte, Montana, they ate gas station burritos that tasted like regret and discovery. A grizzled man at the counter asked where they were headed. “Nowhere,” Maya said. The man nodded like that was the only correct answer. “Then you’re already there,” he said, and gave them a free pack of peanut butter crackers.
“That’s not Florida,” Maya said, not looking up from her flip-phone. She was trying to compose a text message using T9 predictive text, which felt like defusing a bomb with her thumbs. “It’s a dead jellyfish.”
Near the Badlands, the car overheated. They pulled over, popped the hood, and stared at the engine like it might confess. A man in a rusted pickup pulled up behind them. He wore a John Deere cap and had a dog that looked like a used mop. “Radiator hose,” he said, poking at something. “Got duct tape?”
“First stop, Missoula,” Leo announced, tapping the map. A real paper map, folded into an origami disaster. “Land of big skies and cheaper gas.”
“No,” Leo said. “This is the America that sells itself back to you.”