Page 52 of Every Beautiful Mile

“Now where?”

Finn’s head is smashed against the door, and his voice is a muffled shout.

“How am I supposed to know? I can’t reach the phone.”

“Do you hear that?” Marin’s eyebrows pinch together in my rearview mirror.

“Wha—” I hear it before I can finish the word. There’s a hiss. A snake?

The hissing is loud, steady, and completely out of place as we wobble to a stop.

Finn’s head shoots up, eyes wide.

“No!” he shouts. “No, no, no.”

He flings the door open and runs around to the back of Avion. I see him in my side mirror. He looks down, shoves his palms in his eyes, then drops his head back with a groan.

I swing my door open and walk to him.

Now I groan.

There, lodged in the driver’s side rear tire, is a sharp rock ripping through the tread as air angrily blows out of it.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!”

I lean my head back and yell before dropping my arms by my side. My hands clench into fists, and I scream like an actual lunatic in the middle of nowhere. We have a flat tire. We’re lost. It’s million damn degrees.

I take a long breath and a longer blink.

Marin’s here.

She groans.

Our groans all mean the same thing—this fucking sucks.

“Okay,” I finally say, knowing as the adult I have to keep us moving forward somehow. “Okay, we can handle this. Finn, you know how to change the tire, right? I mean, the basic steps? Marin and I can help you with whatever you need.”

“Yeah, I can get it started. Let me just dig the jack out from the storage under my bed, and the tire on the back should be easy enough to get off.”

There is no enthusiasm in his voice.

“Great. Marin—you make us some snacks while Finn gets started, okay? And I think there’s a map or something in the glove box. I’ll see if I can find where we are and get us the hell out of here.”

My confidence is a lie.

I doubt this is even a marked road, much less one on a map. For all I know, this was where we are going to sit until we die and then ironically someone will find our bones.

When I click open the glove box, the crammed-in worn road atlas pops free. Before spreading it across the hood, I give into the sudden urge to slam the ripped-up book down.

I do it again.

Somehow, in this Idaho wilderness-induced breakdown, I find relief in beating the hell out of the Avion with a book so old the cover is faded beyond recognition filled with stained yellow pages no longer bound together.

I raise the atlas up and slam it back down.

“Stupid!” Thwack. “Dinosaur!” Thwack. “Bones!” Thwack.

“Want to throw a wine glass next?” Marin stands holding a plate of fruit and cheese, unamused as she watches my tantrum.

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