Buenos dias. I brought you some coffee.
Oh. You heard me crying last night? Well, aren’t you special. It’s kind of something I do now that my children were taken from me solely because of a mental illness that was in itself caused by childbirth. I cry at the frustration I feel towards the paradox I’m caught up in. I hope your sweet dreams weren’t disrupted.
No, no, you’re fine. I’m fine too. No need for apologies. Let’s just…I don’t know. Here’s the coffee.
I have a map – looks like we’re a ways from the highway now – and I also have some recommendations on things to do locally, thanks to our dear motel keeper.
Like Billy’s gun range. That’s just a couple miles down the road and is supposedly a real popular place. Yeah, I can shoot. But I hate guns.
Or there’s the Country Crock’s Antique Barn. Yeah, I’ve got enough antiques to start my own barn.
Or we could go about ten miles to this farm where we can buy apples and shit. The motel keeper said it’s just beautiful out thatta way.
You’d rather keep driving? Me too. I’ll meet ya in the car. And I say we head north. To where? We have time to decide.
Don’t worry. It’ll be fun.