“Good, now close that window. The bikers may not kill us, but that stench sure will.”

The driver obliges, but slowly. He relishes the hitchhiker’s protests with the mischievous glee of an older brother who has finally given in to his younger sibling’s cries. “Aw, aright,” says his teasing smile, and he has to wonder if it would be so out of place if he reached out and gave the hitchhiker a loving punch on the arm: not too hard, but enough for him to know who is in charge, of windows and everything else.

The driver settles for a mocking whine: “oooh, it smells.” His eyes have regained the hint, for the first time since he set out thirty-four hours ago, of the dance they would take on when he teased Paula and she would cry “no, not fair” just like a child.

As signs for the highway out of town spring to life from between the slaughterhouses, it clicks for the driver: Paula-Dearborn-California-murdered-road-Michigan. The driver wants to tack “hitchhiker,” as well, into the continuum but isn’t sure where. The returning waves of nausea tell him that he could place the hitchhiker anywhere in the story, and it would still make perfect sense.