Silence. The sleeping Agent Watterson didn’t even snore. Hitchens relished this respite. He looked out his periphery to see Watterson’s face smashed against the window. He confirmed the captive was still subdued in the back seat with a gaze in the rearview mirror. The rising sun exasperated his itchy eyes now watering under the weight of several silent hours open, watching the highway's white lines. Watterson snorted, pulled his head off the glass, and opened his eyes. “How much further?”

“Not long. You’ve been out for a while.”

“Good. My fucking ass hurts, and I need to piss. Pullover.”

“Really? No, good morning. I’ll pull over at the next bit of trees. Maybe I’ll strand you out here in god’s country.”

“I...

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