Just after we pass into South Carolina, I catch Radar yawning and insist upon a driver switch. I like
driving, anyway—this vehicle may be a minivan, but it’s my minivan. Radar scoots out of his seat and
into the first bedroom, while I grab the steering wheel and hold it steady, quickly stepping over the kitchen
and into the driver’s seat.
Traveling, I am finding, teaches you a lot of things about yourself. For instance, I never thought myself
to be the kind of person who pees into a mostly empty bottle of Bluefin energy drink while driving
through South Carolina at seventy-seven miles per hour—but in fact I am that kind of person. Also, I
never previously knew that if you mix a lot of pee with a little Bluefin energy drink, the result is this
amazing incandescent turquoise color. It looks so pretty that I want to put the cap on the bottle and leave
it in the cup holder so Lacey and Ben can see it when they wake up.
But Radar feels differently. “If you don’t throw that shit out the window right now, I’m ending our
eleven-year friendship,” he says.
“It’s not shit,” I say. “It’s pee.”
“Out,” he says. And so I litter. In the side-view mirror, I can see the bottle hit the asphalt and burst
open like a water balloon. Radar sees it, too.
“Oh, my God,” Radar says. “I hope that’s like one of those traumatic events that is so damaging to
my psyche that I just forget it ever happened.”
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