Chapter 52: now I can't hide so why not drive

He doesn't go to see her coming out of church.

There are a number of reasons for this, not least among them a strong sense that the fewer convenient chance meetings there are between them - at least where her family can see - the better. But the other reasons... He's not sure about those, not sure how to articulate them to himself at all. Something about having been so close to her, as close as it's possible to be with someone, physically but not even just that: how she was already under his skin and nestled into his ribcage but somehow two nights ago she found a way to go deeper, found her way into the paths of his bone marrow. She pushed deeper into him the second he was inside her, and she burned him, seared him, and all he wanted when they were done was more.

But it's good to burn. Seeing her would do that to him, a puff of air on the coals, but he thinks not seeing her might do that even better.

For so long it was all just in his mind - his fantasies in lieu of anything outside his own damn skull. He thought he would want to be done with that if he ever got this far. If they got this far. To the extent that he dared to think that might be possible. But there was last night, so deep in his head and so good with her, and it's just one more thing that isn't working out the way he thought it would.

He wants her everywhere.

He does go by the church, early in the afternoon. The doors are closed, the parking lot over half empty but still dotted with a few cars - he supposes some things must happen after the regular service is done. The building is very white and very clean in the equally clean sunshine. The day is almost entirely clear, sky aggressively blue and cloudless, like the whole world is still washed and cleansed by last weekend's flood.

Last weekend. Only last weekend. That fucks with him. It doesn't feel like it's been a week. It doesn't feel like it's possible for so many things to have happened in that short a period. He's not sure even Beth Greene could fuck with time to that degree.

What happened happened. It is what it is. He can't conceive of wanting it any other way.

Lost in this, leans against the brick, lights a cigarette and looks at the church for a while.

It's not just that it was a week ago. Not just that so much happened in seven days. It could happen. It does appear to have, and the world was supposedly made in six. That seems wildly improbable to him, but he'd have to own - if someone dragged him into the conversation - that anything's possible.

Like falling in love with a sweet, brilliant, inhumanly powerful eighteen year old farmer's daughter who inexplicably loves him back.

It's not just that week. Not just that at all. He looks at the church, at the closed doors, and he thinks about her in the rain, coming out in her white dress like a young bride, crowded with Shawn under their umbrella, laughing, happy and scrubbed and Nice with her family and friends and all the good Christians and that world he was never supposed to come near let alone start eating regular dinners there, drinking coffee and talking to mothers and holding the hands of daughters under big dining room tables.

She met his eyes then and froze.

That wasn't The Moment. There is no Moment. There is no singular point at which this begins. He's well aware of that. But he thinks about her eyes, what it did to him when they seized and held his own, reached across the street and fucking pinned him, and it was barely two months ago. Barely two months to fall deeper and harder into this than he ever imagined it was possible to fall. For him. For anyone. He didn't know shit like this existed. Thought it might all be a lie. A pleasant lie people like to tell, like a hundred thousand others.

But it's not a lie. She locked eyes with him, held him, and as far as Moments go he figures it works about as well as anything else.

He drops the cigarette onto the pavement and crushes it out with his heel.

She's a nice girl. Sweet. But long before Friday night he knew about her wicked side, knew about her clever little hands, knew that she saw what she liked and went for it, knew that her innocence was both wise and unafraid of wanting. She was innocent the moment he met her and she's still innocent now, but innocent and virginal don't always have a huge amount to do with each other. So he thinks about her in church this morning in her pretty white dress, her hair gathered neatly back and braided, gold heart pendant around her neck and delicate pale beads around her wrist, and he thinks about her standing with her hymnal, her beautiful voice lifted in praise - and how she sounds when her voice is lifted in something else entirely.

Nice girl in church with all the good Christians, and none of them know that she has the strength of a saint, that she baptizes in her own name, that she says fuck me like a prayer, and that she looks like an angel when she's riding him with her head thrown back and her hand between her thighs, when she's coming like the sky cracking.

None of them know that she arches naked in the grass, drenched ivory in the moonlight, and she laughs the birds out of the trees.

None of them have any fucking idea.

He almost feels sorry for them.

There are more romantic places for an illicit rendezvous than a parking lot behind a Target. There are many less romantic places as well. It's a good thing that neither of them cares much about that part of this. That was true long before now. She's pragmatic. So is he. No amount of I love yous is going to change that.

Whatever works. This works. It's like she said: he doesn't care. He just wants to see her. They could just sit in the fucking truck and he would be satisfied.

He did go shopping, though.

He waits, focused on things he can't see, and the world fades into endless blacktop, line of dumpsters, giant block of a building like a god-child's toy sent tumbling out of Heaven, sky so wide and blue it's like something he could fall back up into. He thinks about wings again. He's been thinking about wings a lot lately. Birds, wolf gods. What might be involved in learning to fly. Whether that's the kind of thing you can learn. Whether it's just something that happens.

He doesn't think you really learn. Like walking. People say learn, but he thinks it might just be something you do. A lot of falling, but sooner or later you're off and moving through the world.

He closes his eyes. Gin Blossoms again. I didn't know I was lost at the time.

Sooner or later you do figure it out.

Soft tap at the window. His eyes snap open and he turns just as she's climbing in, and it's like he imagined: hair in a neat ponytail and neat braid, pale beads, gold pendant and butterfly studs. All she's missing is the white dress.

Tight jeans. Pale green tank top, knit cardigan falling off one bare shoulder. She tugs it back up and it promptly falls down again. He doesn't think she really wants to keep it up at all.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Then he's quiet, just looking at her, bemused. She looks back and lifts a hand, bites adorably at her blue-lacquered thumbnail. "What?"

"You gonna tell me where we're goin', or what?" The corner of his mouth creeps upward. "Unless you just wanna hang here rest of the day. I mean, those are some interestin' fuckin' dumpsters and all."

She breathes a laugh. "Who says I had any plan?"

"You were the one told me to meet you."

"Yeah, well." She leans in and presses a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw, and his eyes slip half shut. Her lips are so light, so soft, they almost tickle. "Just drive," she murmurs. "I don't care. Just take me outta here. Just drive anywhere."

Alright.

He pulls around and out of the parking lot, and he drives.

He finds the main road, state highway, goes southwest. No reason; the direction feels right. Something pulling at him. Back when he was considering trying to get Merle behind leaving Georgia entirely, back when he was considering where they might go, he found himself - more and more - thinking north. North just as a direction, not any specific state, and in fact he hadn't been sure why he had been nursing that budding fixation - because it would have reached that level of intensity. He can tell. He knows himself that well, even if he didn't and still doesn't know why he kept looking up the globe toward places he had never imagined he might go.

He thought vaguely about the Carolinian Outer Banks. He thought about Ocean City. He thought about the Atlantic a lot, about that immense stretch of undulating steel-blue. He has no idea if it would actually be that color, but of course he's seen pictures, seen it on TV. He thought about Virginia, he thought about the Potomac. He thought about Washington. He thought about the Chesapeake, and though he's never been much of a fan of cities he thought about Baltimore and Philadelphia, and he had the remarkable daring to think about New York. Beyond that, even. Maybe beyond that and further. They might not have to stop. They might be able to just keep going.

There wouldn't have been any reason to stop. There would have been nothing to stop for.

But now he goes southwest, chasing the day, and she seems satisfied with the decision. Like she has before, she pulls off her boots and socks and props her feet up on the dash, extending her toes into the sun, which winks off the shine of the matching nail polish she's wearing. She leans back, much as she can, turns up the radio and rolls the window entirely down and slides her hand into the wind, sine-waving gracefully up and down. Her hair drifts around her face and outward, like it wants to join her fingers.

He considers her hands as things that might play the world. Him. This. Everything. He keeps his eyes on the road but it's difficult. There are cars. A lot of the drivers in the world are bad ones, and a lot of these drivers are making bad decisions, and that's distracting him from something way the hell more important.

So he cuts off down the first side road he sees and then another, and turns them back north at last, sun to the left and to the right all the sky it's made into its bright wake.

Soft hills, stretches of field. Pasture. Cows graze, scatters of white and black. The brownish blurs of rail fences. No other cars. No one at all.

Slowly her fingers hang loose. Her eyes are almost closed. But she's not sleeping. He can tell. Among other things it's her breathing: he knows what it looks like when she sleeps now, and she's breathing too quickly, too hard; almost imperceptible, and he knows someone else would probably miss it, but it's there.

He reaches over and lays a hand on thigh, squeezes, and she lets out a soft breath. Lowers her own hand, takes his in hers, lifts it and places it over her breast.

He glances at her, amused, as it feels like his blood thickens. It wouldn't take much at all to work him into a simmer. He's pretty much already there. "You wanna get into this when I'm drivin'?"

"You could pull over," she murmurs, then squeezes his hand and shakes her head. "Don't pull over. Just touch me. Just like this."

He doesn't remove his hand. There are no cars in sight and the road is straight and relatively even, and anyway he couldn't say no to her. She angles herself sideways in the seat to make it easier for him, draws her legs up and turns toward him, and he cups her breast and kneads gently, runs his fingertips across her nipple, and she whispers his name.

She wanted him to touch her all the time, even before they broke through that last door. Always looking for excuses, when it was safe. Making it clear that she was hungry. That there were things she wanted. But now it's like the floodgates are open, and she can want, and she doesn't seem to be able to get enough of it.

Like she said. She almost died.

Twice.

"Never been touched like this before."

"What're you talkin' about? We done this."

"No, I mean..." She shakes her head slowly, eyelids raising just a bit. "Like not even doin' anything else. Just drivin'. That's all we're doin'. Except this."

He's not sure he completely understands, but some of the sense of it is there. That feeling again of something between them having come down, broken or opened, and now everything they do to and with each other and everything they can do is free-floating, unpackaged, and doesn't need to come all at once. Like how lazy they could be in the grass, how she could touch him, stroke him slowly, and it would feel so good but it didn't have to go anywhere. Nothing else had to happen.

There's nothing they have to do. Except what they want.

He doubts a lot of people proceed along that assumption.

She's looking at him with a bit more overt directness. "You never did this either?" Because she can do the math, and she'll know by now that she's not insulting him. He told her. There wasn't anyone.

This is his first.

He shakes his head. "Never. Never wanted to." He lets his hand drop back to her thigh and rests it there, stroking her with the edge of his thumb. "Never... Never really liked touchin' at all."

She cocks her head. Her eyes are wide open now and brightly curious. "How come?"

He shrugs. I'unno. He does, though. And some things are still difficult to say. "Just didn't."

"But you like touchin' me."

"No, I just fuckin' put up with it." He hooks his fingers, digs them in just a bit. "Girl, what d'you think?"

"No one ever really touched you in a way you liked, did they?" Her voice is very soft, very gentle - like it always is when she becomes relentless. He grits his teeth slightly. Stop. "No one ever really touched you so it felt good."

He sighs, but doesn't remove his hand. "Guess not."

"No guessin'. I know it." She's looking at him and she absolutely refuses to look away. This is nothing new. And he can take it. He can bear it - carry it. He's strong enough. He's learned.

"You know a lotta things."

"You deserve it, Daryl." She runs her fingertips lightly up his arm and he shivers. "You deserve to feel good. You gotta know that. You deserve it."

"You just goin' ahead and decidin' that now?" The corner of his mouth curves, thin and sardonic. But behind it it's a little hard to breathe. Because she talks like that and he believes her, and even now part of him is sure that might become a problem. "You the boss of that?"

"Ain't about decidin'." She sits back again, head tipped against the seat, and when he shoots her another glance she's smiling, very small. "I've been tryin' to get you to understand that since... Since a long time. Someday you will."

Someday. Time. Time to teach him. She's talking like there will be. Time together.

Or she's talking like he'll be able to learn without her.

No, that isn't true.

"I changed my mind," she says softly. "Pull over."

He guesses what this is. It's not a hard thing to guess, and the guess is a educated one. It's in how her legs are parting, how her hand is tighter on his arm. Her breathing. When he flicks his attention to her, the wide blue of her eyes. Those doe eyes, knowing and alive and taking joy in being caught.

Begging him to catch her.

Okay. He can do that. It's not like he has to run fast. Not like he has far to go. And she's left him plenty of signs.

He's forcing himself to focus enough to look for a turn-off, somewhere sheltered, somewhere with a little privacy, but suddenly her hand leaves his arm and plunges between his legs, closing insistently over him, and he jumps and sucks in a breath. He was already hard but all at once he's hard, practically pulsing in her hand, heartbeat in his throat and between his ears. The road is wavering in front of him, shimmering like summer haze. Nothing on either side but cornfields.

"Shit, girl, you're gonna make me fuckin' cra-"

"Here." That wicked edge in her voice, and the edge is ragged, her hand as hot as he feels. "Right here."

God, don't fucking argue, don't fucking- "Ain't no cover."

"Don't care. I don't see anyone comin', do you?"

He does pull over, pulls right the fuck over, if for no other reason than so he can stare at her. She's always been the daring one here, right from the very beginning, right from the very first night when she kissed him - it's who she is - but this.

Might not be much of a step further, not at all given what they've already done, but it feels like it. This isn't the forest. This isn't the moonlit ruins. This is her wanting to fuck him right here in full view of the road.

"You sure about this?"

But she's unfastening her seatbelt, pushing herself forward, reaching for him and raking her fingers into his hair, nails scraping his scalp and making him want to purr like a goddamn cat. "Don't I seem sure?"

She does. She really, really does.

It wasn't fast before - not when she rode him and not when he pushed her down and fucked her with her legs wrapped around his waist. It was hard, deep, but not rushed, not even when he was going out of his mind over her, not even when his chest felt like a goddamn volcano, not even when it felt like his heart was throwing itself against the inside of his ribcage in an effort to get to her, to be in her. He went slow then because he didn't want to hurt her, because he wanted to make it so good for her, but this can be good too.

He was never worried about that and he isn't now.

She's sure as fuck not going slow with her clothes. She's not careful. She clearly doesn't have any care to spare for it. She shoves herself backward, grinning and already panting, dragging off her cardigan and pulling her top over her head but not bothering with her bra. And he knows this is going to be very awkward, probably uncomfortable for one or both of them, but he doesn't give a fuck, his hands colliding with hers as she fumbles at her jeans and jerks them down. He grabs them at her knees, hauls them off her, and it's just her in her bra and panties - soft white cotton, plain and nice, practical farm girl to the skin - and she tears the latter down before he can get to them, her legs already falling open and her cunt glistening beneath wet and equally glistening curls.

As he stares - unable to do much else for the span of a breath, everything in him locked with overload - she pushes herself up sideways in the seat, still grinning. "You said. You promised."

Yeah, he did.

She turns over and crawls clumsily to him, tugging at his shirt. They don't have to be naked, don't even really need to take much off at all, it's not necessary, but there are a lot of things he doesn't technically need to do that he nevertheless very much needs to do anyway. He manages to get his shirt off - bangs his elbow on the steering wheel and hisses as sparks shoot all down his arm but otherwise moves on with his life - and laughs, rough and breathless, as he works at his fly with fingers that feel too big and completely devoid of dexterity. Stupid fingers. God, they are so fucking stupid, come on.

"What'd I promise you?"

"God, you jerk." She joins him in the project of yanking at the waist of his jeans, tugs them and his shorts down enough to let him spring free, and it's not exactly cool in here but the air is somehow still a shock and he gasps. She doesn't seem to have noticed. Her gaze has locked onto his cock, rapt, and she licks her lips and reaches for it.

"No, you don't." He catches her wrists, grasps them firmly, and a frustrated little giggle bursts out of her. He likes teasing her, it's fun, but he's also not sure where he's getting this level of self control from, not sure how the fuck he's not just letting her do whatever the hell she wants with him. "What'd I promise you? Tell me."

"Oh, I..." She moans and twists in his hands, squeezes her thighs together. When she parts them again he catches another glimpse of shining wet on their insides, slick to their creases, and sense memory surges across his tongue. She was so sweet, so sweet. "You said you'd fuck me, Daryl." She grins again. "You said you'd fuck me hard. Remember?"

"Bet your ass. Wanted to make sure you did." He tugs sharply at her; his jeans are pulled only a little way down his hips and it's not ideal but he thinks he can handle less than ideal if fucking her is involved. Thinks he can make do. "C'mon, then."

"You've got-"

"Glove box."

Her hands are shaking as she gets it open. In fact it falls open and spills out a fair number of things - empty pack of cigarettes, lighter that doesn't work anymore, pens that also probably don't work anymore, crumpled receipts, a battered map that might or might not be hopelessly out of date. The box of condoms comes with it and she catches it, ignores everything else as she tears it open, hands him one. He's seized by hectic laughter as he rips at the end, tosses away the wrapper, rolls it on with a quick gasp - the contact, the pressure, how fucking close she is and how he can have her now. And she's already trying to climb into his lap when he presses a hand against her chest, mutters Just a sec, Jesus fuckin' Christ, girl and slides the seat back as far as it'll go.

Which is just far enough. She's small. Thank the good sweet Lord, she's small and she's swinging a leg over him, so wonderfully clumsy, and when she closes a hand around his cock he whimpers and fumbles at her hips. She's small and she can ruin him with a touch.

"I told you I wanted it," she breathes, lips brushing his, her free hand gripping his shoulder for leverage. "I-" Her breath jerks to a halt in her chest as she lowers herself onto him, head falling back, and as the blood pounds in his head he holds onto her, arms curled around her and his mouth against the underside of her jaw, filled with the taste of her sweat when he licks at her.

Fucking loving it.

"Yeah, you did." He scrapes his teeth carefully against her throat - that skin so delicate, so soft - and she shudders, rolls her hips and shudders even harder with a needy little sound. "I said I was gonna."

But he's going to wait for her.

She rolls her hips again, makes another one of those sounds - weak and broken at the ends - but it's like she's reached for and found some kind of center, some balance, settling herself and sliding her hands up his chest as her breath deepens. "Oh God, Daryl, you..."

How she says his name. Like that, like it's one of the few words she can find, one of the few things her mind can hold onto. Like he might be doing that for her. Like she might be able to take that from him. Like it was real, before, what they did. What he gave her. Like it happened.

Because even now there are moments when he's not so certain.

He scatters kisses over her neck, tongue flicking against her pulse, closes his lips and sucks briefly at her, and she trembles, moans with no trace of words. It occurs to him that he might leave marks, and he's risked that before, and then she only made a pretense of caring. He doesn't think she cares at all now.

"Good?"

"Yeah." She tips her forehead against his and a shaky laugh escapes her. "I feel... It's tight, I'm tight, I'm... But it's good."

She is. Tight around him, tensing and loosening up again, and it's so good, it's amazing, how like this she feels almost like a hot, slick hand around him, but he pulls their bodies flush and runs his hands up and down her back, panting into the hollow of her throat, trying to soothe her if she needs any soothing. Trying to show her that this is for her. She can have him. She can have whatever he has to offer, leave whatever she doesn't want.

"You can take your time," he whispers, shifting in the seat, trying to give her more control. Like he thought, it's not terribly comfortable. It would be difficult to express how much he doesn't care. "Fuck, Beth, you're... You can."

"Don't wanna take my time." She moves again, rocks forward, tightens her knees against his hips. Her moan is threatening to shatter, cracked at the end. "I said I wanted you to fuck me hard. That's what I want." Another laugh, low and rough, and her mouth arches against his all open and wet, her tongue flicking against his lips. Pushing into him, withdrawing, moving in her own mouth like she's savoring his taste. "Fuck me, please..."

But she already is. She doesn't even really need him. There isn't a lot he could do anyway, not like this; she's pinning him to the seat, riding him every bit as much as she did in the ruins - cramped, clearly unable to get the speed or the rhythm she wants, but doing her best, doing very well, her nails digging into his shoulders as she bounces in his lap. He's just trying to hold on, hands tight on her hips and his mouth against every inch of skin he can reach, groaning mutilated versions of her name as she pounds his own pleasure through him.

And she's talking, or she's trying, hissing in his ear and against his jaw, words scattered and fragmentary but clear enough for him to get most of them, and they scorch their way into his brain: I want your cock, Daryl, oh Jesus, give me your cock, give it to me, I love it, I love you, I love you, I need you, fuck me, fuck me... Grinding against him, her words and her breath winding tighter, and he knows she won't need any help from him here either.

But he can help anyway. Or try. He can still give her this, as her words trail off, give her his own words if he can catch them, as he closes a hand tight on her breast and hooks the other around the back of her neck, fingers finding her nipple and pinching. Fuck, yeah, take it, Beth, fuckin' hell, look at you, you feel so fuckin' amazin', your cunt, oh my fuckin' God-

Might be the word - words do things to her, that much is abundantly clear. Might be the pinch. Might be anything. The whole package. Might be that he's getting it right. She jerks her head back and snaps her hips forward and holds on for dear life, spasming, and yes- Yes, she does scream.

She screams so fucking loud.

Beth.

Like she's given him permission he comes seconds after her, rocking him like the crash of a wave and slamming him into her, and the back of his head hits the headrest so hard he sees stars.

And this really is very uncomfortable. One of his feet is jammed crooked beside the brake pedal. His loose seatbelt buckle is digging into his hip and he's pretty sure his skin is raw from the waistband of his own fucking jeans. The sun has been pounding on the cab this whole time and it's officially hot, even with the windows down, and they're slick with sweat, slick with each other, sticky.

It's the most perfect thing he can imagine.

Her head flops forward against his shoulder. Her whole body sags, trembles, and it takes him a few seconds to get that she's laughing again. He strokes her damp hair and smiles, and the smile feels weak in the best possible way. Everything feels crooked, knocked askew

"You gotta get off me."

She nuzzles her nose against his ear and hums happily. "Don't wanna."

"You gotta. C'mon."

He pushes at her and she lifts herself with a disappointed huff, which catches when he slides out of her. He disentangles his fingers from her hair just as she tumbles back into the passenger's seat with a soft squeak of laughter. For a second or two all he can do is gaze at her; he's dimly aware of how ridiculous he must look with his cock hanging out of his halfway-pulled-down jeans, but it's inconsequential next to what he's seeing right now. Shining with sweat, lips swollen and hair mussed, bra strap slipping off one shoulder, legs slightly parted as if she's inviting him back inside. Like always, she's glowing. Little fragment of fallen sunshine.

She smiles at him and swipes strands of hair out of her face, and yes, please God, he wants to fuck her all over again, but he also wants...

He doesn't even know.

He looks ridiculous, this is ridiculous, the day in the clearing she said it was ridiculous and she was correct right down to the bone, and none of that is a reason to not say this and keep saying it forever.

"God, I fuckin' love you."

A giggle rolls through her and she turns on her side, fishing around on the floor for her clothes. "Not exactly what I had in mind when I used to think about romance, Mr. Dixon."

For a second he's worried. A little. It's knee-jerk, he knows he shouldn't be, but he looks at the long stretch of her back as she grabs her jeans from where they're wedged a good way under the seat, and the worry forces its way in anyhow. It feels like a gritty floor under him, like sitting on the broken fragments of something. No, this is not romantic, and it doesn't have anything even to do with meeting her behind a fucking Target. There is nothing romantic about this. He's not equipped for romance. It didn't come with his model.

He doesn't have anything to give her.

But she raises her head and she's still glowing, that smile, and he's reminded that he doesn't have to be worried anymore.

Instead he gives her a look and pulls off the condom, and tosses it out the window into the ditch. "Thought you didn't want that shit."

"I don't." She takes his face in her hands and turns it back to hers, and suddenly she's very close to him. She's gotten her panties on but otherwise nothing else, but all he sees is her face, soft and bright, her lips slightly parted.

"Beth..."

"I don't want that. I want this." She combs his damp hair back from his face and kisses him, and it's slow, almost chaste. "I told you I wanted somethin' better than perfect. Perfect isn't messy. This is... Everythin' real is messy. It doesn't fit. There's nothin' neat about it. There's nothin' easy." Like before, she tips her forehead against his, and he closes his eyes and leans into her. He wasn't worried, not really, but when she talks like this, when she touches him this way, she's reaching into him and stroking him smooth again, pulling him further into that circle of light she takes with her everywhere she goes.

"I love you," she murmurs, "and this is what I want." She smiles again; he feels it when she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. "And I'm the boss. Remember?"

He nods. He's smiling too - a little - with laughter fluttering in his throat, but the thing is that it's true. She's the boss. Of everything. What she says goes.

He's extremely comfortable with that. Whatever else might be uncomfortable.

"Get your clothes on." She bites lightly at his lip and is abruptly gone, back to her own dressing. "We're not goin' back yet."

He watches, still half smiling, as he yanks his jeans back up and searches around for his shirt. "No?"

"Nope." She turns her attention back out the window to the field beyond - no cows, no horses, no buildings in sight. Just high green corn, leaves fluttering, crows chasing each other through the rows. It might go on forever, to whatever is past the edge of the horizon. Her smile is smaller, warmer. A secret thing.

"Let's go, Daryl. We got a lotta light left."

She's the boss. He pulls them back onto the road, rumbling north, a thin line of gray cloud chasing behind.