Around midnight the Mass Pike begins to swim across our windshield, glowing globs of light that slide up the hood and through the glass, all astral and distant and only vaguely dangerous. My eyes slip down to the pale blue of the speedometer needle as my foot dozes on the pedal. 80. 84. 88. 90. Then dark. Trees. I feel my head begin to nod with the rhythm of stripes in the passing lane. “You’re sure you’re good to drive” asks David, his eyes already closed, head resting against the passenger door. It isn’t a question. “Sure,” I reply, squinting. I clench my jaw, bit my tongue. Athol, Gardener, Fitchburg. By Acton I’ve dug a little red half moon in to my own knuckle and the words on the exit sign doubled slightly, as if copies have been made for later. The road seems to narrow as we approach the city - gas stations, stop lights, yield signs and street lights all gave the world shape, pinning down the map. I slow to eighty and feel my pupils tremble. Lexington, Arlington, Cambridge. Boston appears, flanks us, gallops alongside the car, staying the wheel and guiding us straight on in. Off at the Pru, then left, left, right, straight. I turn on to Columbus Ave with tears of sheer strain creeping down my cheeks. A stop sign. A light. A parking spot. Park. I push back my seat and sleep.