Five Hours to Chicago
It was a cold Monday morning somewhere in the middle of Michigan. We'd crossed over the Canadian border the night before on our way from Vermont to Chicago. It was something like ten hours from home and five hours to our destination, but my eyes hadn't wanted to stay open any longer and Elliot couldn't drive. I'd found a rest stop that didn't look terrifying and parked my twenty-year-old Astro Van (named Francis) away from the building so we could nap. He and I had huddled up together after pushing the bench seat flat, nesting under an old sleeping bag. I think we were somewhere outside Flint, but the only thing I knew about Flint was that it was once on the FBI's most dangerous cities list. I assumed Elliot didn't know that, or maybe didn't know where we were, or I doubted he would be sleeping. I was too tired to be anxious. I guess that didn't really matter. No one had broken into the car and murdered us for the six hours we'd been parked.
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