64. The scenery from a car seat
He hates cars, but he does not mind them so much when she is the one who is driving.
Riza's posture is her first noticeable trait, and seated beside her Roy is allowed an unrestricted view of her profile. He pretends to sleep, his head lolling against the window. His eyes are actually half-slits, and he blinks occasionally, in time with the light that filters through the windshield. There are some strange patterns that illuminate her pale neck and the soft angles of her face; one hovers like a butterfly just above the not-quite curve of her upper lip.
She knows that he is watching and it bothers her only slightly; most of the time, her attention is on the road ahead, which is long and strangely lit. Above the earth, the sky is a strange and giddy blue. On the dash in front of them lies a thick envelope containing a letter, a separating force between this world and the time capsule of the automobile.
It is summer, Riza's hair is still cropped military-short, Roy is still a lieutenant colonel, they are looking for a man named Elric. Their lives are at last susceptible to—indeed, dependent on—a land that seems unrelated to that wasteland of crippled, burning bodies and stale air, far and away behind them.