There’s nobody else in the car. Tori can hardly believe this: it’s absolutely silent but for the hum of the road and the sigh of the AC. She looks out the window and sees a man passing her, whom she immediately names Bruno.

“There’s something oddly poetic,” Tori says aloud, “about the way an old motorcyclist’s arm-flab flaps in the highway wind.” She waits a second, then can’t help but giggle. She sneaks another glance at the man’s big tired arms, sunburned on top, pale underneath. This is great! She thinks. I should have made the kids move out years ago!