I look at the map, my foot tapping faster than a rabbit’s. We’re still an hour from Salina.
“I hate to say this,” I tell her, squeezing my eyes closed. “But I have to use the bathroom.”
“OLIVER FLETCHER!” she says. “What did I tell you about using the bathroom when we stopped?”
“I know,” I gripe. “But it’s your fault for getting that devil jerky.”
She gasps. “How dare you blame me because you don’t know how to read labels and have the spice tolerance of a literal infant.”
I sit up, trying to take some of the pressure off my bladder, but my head hits the roof in the process, making Poppy roll her lips together to hide her laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s my fault,” I say. “But you gotta pull over.”
“There’s barely a shoulder!”
“Then find a place to turn off. I can’t take it.”
“Fine. Find the nearest rest stop.”
I grab the phone and type frantically. “There’s a town in less than a mile. Wilson, Kansas.” I point eagerly toward the exit that we’re already—mercifully—approaching. “Take it. Take it!”
“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’m taking it.”
My leg is bouncing against the dashboard. “Take the first right.”
“Press ‘go’ on the map,” she says through clenched teeth.
I press “go.”
“In two miles, turn right onto 27th Street/Old US-40. The destination will be on your left.”
“Two miles,” I say.
“I heard,” Poppy says in a voice that’s so irritatingly calm, I could growl.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” I say.
“Never,” she says, sounding even calmer and more condescending. If that’s possible.
I alternate between drumming my palms on the dashboard and balling my hands into fists until we reach the turn in the tiny town.
“There it is!” I say, unbuckling.
“I take it back,” she says. I throw open the door before she’s even put the car in park, and I sprint through the snow, I hear her call out, “I think Icancall you Fletch.”
When I get back to the car two minutes later, Poppy is yawning and fluttering her eyes, like she’s trying to keep them open. I spot dark circles beneath her eyes that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
Guilt jabs my gut. She’s driven all day in crappy conditions that have already added an hour to the drive, and she’s clearly exhausted.
“Want me to drive? I can handle being cramped.”
“No, I’m fine,” she says. Mid-yawn.
“Poppy—”
“Fletch, you barely fit as it is. I’m fine. We’re almost there.”
I pick up my phone to resume our route when a notification hits.
Your reservation at the Sleep Inn Salina has been canceled due to no-show. All guests must check in before 11:59 p.m. on the date of arrival. The credit card on file has been charged for one night’s stay. Please contact customer service with any questions.
