tasting the air. When that happens… let’s just hope we’re off this bus.

The only help I can offer is asking Rita for more snacks. Salty ones, preferably. She of course grins like a fool, delighted to help, while passing over countless bags of travel-sized nuts. They go straight from my hand to Quinn’s determined lips. Her eyes reluctantly shift from the eighty-year-old entrée to the crazy guy shoveling things into her face. “Try to taste the salt on these. It will make you feel better until we stop again. I promise.”

It won’t.

After finishing the last of the bag, Quinn’s gaze returns to the juicy old lady. She continues to mindlessly eat and salivate over the silver-haired meal. I hardly recognize the withered shell she’s be...

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