When Mike pulls to a stop, dust levitates to the height of the old car's wheels but neither notice. Jessie's been staring out the window the whole drive. It's like old times, except even the uneasy truce they had in those days will never be reached again.
Finally, her eyes turn and seem to focus. They're at a bus station. More dust, more metal, more loneliness on the outskirts of town. Not too different from the office, really. An old Greyhound, gunmetal gray and blindingly reflective in the noontime light, pulls up. Jessie looks at him quizzically.
"Get out," he grumbles. They meet where heat is radiating off the car hood he hands her a bus ticket. She stares at it like she can't figure out what it is. "Get out of here," he says.
She takes it. He turns to examine at the idling buses, even now too much of a coward to look her in the face. "It's to Alaska."
For a long moment, she stares at the ticket and he stares at the horizon. He thinks, she might really go back to him. She might crawl back into the car and go back to that man who took everything from her, bit by bit, until there was nothing left in her life but him.
Neither of them say a word. Eventually, gripping the thick slip of paper, Jessie turns. She walks in slow motion, like she's sleepwalking, and Mike knows it's the last time he'll see her. Walking away.