Connie sat in the car, reading. She'd never read for pleasure before. She wasn't even getting much pleasure out of it, aside from the power trip of reading a stolen manuscript. She hadn't shown Arnold. She wouldn't until she was done with it, because he'd take it away or burn it when she slept. She didn't care enough about it to threaten him into letting her have it, and she couldn't carry out that threat besides. So she read it in secret.

It wasn't good writing, not that she had much basis for comparison. The plot was confusing and loosely tied together, and she couldn't see much connection between the characters. Still, she read--because she wasn't allowed to and because she'd stolen it. It wasn't pleasure from the book itself. She felt pleasure knowing that it wasn't hers, that it belonged to that stupid clerk in the stupid gas station, who didn't even have the cigarettes Connie had wanted. She deserved to have her stupid book stolen from her.

Sensing Arnold's proximity, a skill she'd cultivated in the past few years, she looked up and saw him coming back to the car. He wasn't looking at her--he'd gotten rid of the sunglasses a while ago and she could see his eyes now--so she quickly put the book back in her bag.

He'd reached the car. He got in, saying, "They have a room. We can sleep tonight."

"We never sleep," she answered, as he drove the car into a parking space. They got out in unison and headed to their room, not even bothering to lock the car.