"Not so hard," Beth speaks softly, her instruction airy in the quiet of the car. "Don't hav'fta grip like that." There's a harmless lazy smile on her lips as she talks to him across their small distance, "No need f'r white knuckles." Beside her Simon loosens his grip, flexes his straining fingers and regrips the wheel, looser, as though he were not doing it for the first time. At her words, and in concentrated measure he sucks in air through his parted lips, breezing in quick through the spaces in his teeth. His rigid shoulders slacken. "You're doin' great, you know."

Simon shakes his head in a rueful chortle, betraying both the tension and pleasure jointly derived from this first foray behind the wheel. Still smiling wryly he glances into the rearview mirror to the backseat where Daryl dozes with arms crossed, his bearded jaw dropping down to his chest. All day Daryl had driven them, from early dawn to late in the afternoon. When Simon relieved him, Beth, more rested than either, sent Daryl to the back and took on the driving instruction herself. Wedged soundly between the seat and door, she sits with feet raised, watching the road and the fifteen-year-old navigating it. "It'll be dark soon," she observes, looking up through the windshield into the waning light, orange and faded and grey beyond the wooded tree line, "wanna switch soon?"

Simon's eyes do not falter from the road. "Something going to change after dark?"

Beth smiles slightly. "Guess not."

"I mean, the way th' car works – engine, steering, forward drive, an' all that? That all stays th' same?"

Beth eyes him, and even without the slightest crack in his demeanor she gets he's taunting her. "Mrhm," her eyes roll. It's not true to his nature to be sardonic, but he wields it well when he takes it on.

The wry grin spreads broadly across his young face, still intent and focused on the road. "My eyes aren't going to suddenly stop working in the dark, are they?"

"Okay..." her slow drawl acquiesces. "Never mind. Drive till mornin'."

Now Simon breaks away to glance briefly at her. "Is that the plan?"

Her response is less than immediate. "Think we drive till we find a reason to stop."

Simon nods. His right eye finds her in his periphery, "We'll know what that is? When we see it?"

Her eyes trained ahead, Beth reaches back absently, tugs her hair where it grows behind her ear. "... Definitely."

Simon checks the speed gauge, though Beth had already set the cruise control; his grip shifts again, and onwards they drive.

Before the light fades entirely Simon pulls over. Daryl rouses and they three stretch, relieve themselves, fill up on gas, and pull down from the roof the solar oven Simon had rigged to strap to the roof. For the length of the day their dinner cooked itself, soaking up heat though the air was chilled and biting. Unclamping the iron oven they're met with bubbling, savory stew. Simon had been certain it'd work if he could only assure it would stay put; it did, and his vision and efforts made for a hot meal, decently flavored, and sturdy enough. It's not exactly hunger they appease with each lifted spoonful but something close to boredom. The hot meal burns away some of the monotony and tedium of sitting cooped up for hours, motionless, and without destination. It will only last so long, but the respite is welcome while it's with them.

Daryl chews, spits out out a tough bit of something from the corner of his mouth, and swallows. "Got some mileage under your belt t'day, huh?" he nods easily at Simon. "Feel good?" His mouth overly full Simon can only look at him, eyes wide, and bright. Here Simon chews and nods. "Feel a'little more a man f'r it?" Daryl smirks in good nature.

Simon swallows, unperturbed by Daryl's harmless prodding, "M'ybe," he nods, his quick eyes flashing. "'d help if m'voice dropped some."

Daryl chuckles and shovels in another large spoonful of stew before his smile fades. "Y'r doin' al'right with that."

Refastening her let-out belt, Beth returns from behind the car, and leans against the driver's side door, looking at the both of them. "We should get going if we're going to."

In answer Simon drinks what's left of the broth in his bowl. Daryl shakes his head and crosses to her, "Le' me."

Beth breathes in the chilled air and looks out into the falling darkness. "I'm awake," she counters plainly. Softly her hand reaches out to the open flap of his leather winged cut, tugging on it, just to have him in hand. "Y'can't cut me out of the rotation just t'do it. Sleep more; you'll be next on deck."

Daryl eyes her, smirks, and licks his fingers, "Yes, Ma'am."

In the car, driving once again, Beth now behind the wheel, and Daryl already back asleep, Simon looks at her from the passenger seat, fighting to reign in his pleasure in what he's about to do. "Got you something."

The delay in any sort of further indication or action on his part prompts Beth to be the one next to speak, "Yeah?" She spares a slight glance in his direction. In the darkness Beth sees he's so pleased with himself. The giddiness of him elicits a small giggle from her. "What?"

"Okay–" Simon steadies the anticipation. He bends and reaches into the pack at his feet, producing from it a black canvas binder of some sort. "The fruits of a side project I campaigned our last couple days in town." Beth eyes it, but she can't guess what to expect. Duly gratified he's piqued her interest, Simon tugs audibly on the stiff and stubborn zipper, then pulls open the folder with ceremony. It takes a second, several, as her eyes shift from the road to it then back. She can't quite make it out, and as such her reaction's withheld, despite knowing he awaits it. Then something glimmers, and the connection is made.

Though she wouldn't have predicted her reaction she wells in tears. Something between a gasp and a giggle escapes her lips before she speaks, warmly, with genuine affection. "Simon–"

"Figured you would like it," he says, bringing down the collection of CDs to his lap. "Figured we could use 'em."

"Absolutely," she smiles.

"Want me to read 'em off? I tried t'get good ones – y'know, desert island kind of mix? I don't know all of 'em, but went with standards, y'know? The ones you know you've heard of but never heard? I dunno, m'ybe you have."

With a spark of brightness Beth brushes at the moisture at her eye. "How many are there?"

"Case holds seventy-two."

At this she laughs. "Famine then feast. Better not read them all. Start with the first couple my'be."

"Right," he nods. "M'kay…" He squints in the darkness. "C'n barely read…"

"Never mind. J'st choose one. Hit or miss."

Dutifully Simon flips through the plastic sheathes, stops about a third of the way through, and pulls out a dark CD from the top right slot. He makes no effort to take note of any markings, just pushes it in. The stereo whirs to life, flashing on a dim electric light. The screen displays "Track 01", then, reaching out from another world, begins the jangling upbeat strumming of guitar. And then, after some bars, a voice.

I am on a lonely road

and I am traveling

traveling, traveling–

Beth cries. So full and broken is her heart all at once, in the best and moved way. Save for the people populating her life, nothing moves her heart like music, nothing sways or consoles or mines her soul as does the strumming of guitar strings, the playing of piano, the sound of emotion made audible, visceral, through voice. For the whole of her life music has been her second language, speaking both through it and letting it speak her truths for her when her own words came up short. Since the change she never let it die, never let it fade completely from her life, but for so long, the only songs were hers.

I wanna be strong,

I wanna laugh along,

I wanna belong to the living–

Alive, alive,

I wanna get up and jive–

The honeyed music, warm and golden like summer, like magic, fills the car, fills their ears, their hearts, their hopes. It is somber, playful, and jubilant all at once. They can't stop listening to the sweet, high, earthy tones of the singer.

"You know who this is?" Simon asks somewhere in the second verse.

"Mm,hm," Beth nods, not just yet ready to speak, to break the spell. "... It's Joni Mitchell."

"You know her?"

Again Beth nods. "I know this album. Blue." Deeply she breathes in, making room for the laid away past. "It was my mother's. She used to say it was the perfect album."

"So–" Simon looks at her with reserve, hesitant to tread too heavily or crassly on her private memories, "success?"

"Simon –" she reaches to grip and clutch his shoulder "– beyond."

The track switches in time to another, slower and more somber than the first, a lonely sweet voice and a single rich piano. Beth, feeling in this hearing the convergence of present and past, needlessly runs her two palms across and down the wheel, a sort of grounding to this place, this moment in time, this collection of companions. Daryl dozing the while behind them, she drives, and she and Simon listen, as through the humble unassuming efforts of a piano, six strings, and a haunting contralto, the lethal rotting world transforms into something brighter, freer, and altogether less vicious. Soft music fills the night, more substantially than what merely fills their one small vehicle, which, alone on this lone road stretching forward and back through darkness and space, seems very much like it could be a stand-in for the whole of the living world; like this one mobile microcosm, alive with forgotten songs, could indeed be all that's been left breathing – spared, untouched, and in unprovoked isolation.

If only feeling thus made it so.