Sometimes she thinks about Highway 1. She read about it, back when she read stuff. A highway stretching along the California coast, each place more beautiful than the last. Mindy's friend once said the air's different than in Texas, smells, tastes different. Better, lighter, somehow. She lets herself imagine when she's falling asleep, after her mom's passed out and before her sister's home. She thinks about it when Tim is still pressed against her, inside her but unmoving. She thinks about it when she first wakes up, before her eyes flutter open for the first time. She thinks about it, then shakes her head and opens her eyes.