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I suffer, sure, on the outside of sleep, touching the black case it brings. I-20 takes you straight into Georgia’s mouth: Spanish moss, azaleas, trees smashing into both sides of the car. You can’t lean into them, those pillows pulsing, the mosquito netting. You can’t scatter yourself across the exit ramps, hold up a sign and go—

the same picture against the same screen: a Waffle House, hellishly yellow, a glass door. People push through it, pull the door open—the place ripples with laughter—and there we are, at the table, carrying on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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