No sleep. Time drags. The scenery changes from flat to mountains. The stops get farther apart. The guitars don’t stop but they lessen, not quieter—just fewer. Corina moves to readjust next to me. I cover her with my hoodie because she seems cold.
My eyes are closed. My Voice and I are trying to hear each other through the noise. When the bus pulls out of Ashland it heads up a steep long hill into the mountains, leaving the sounds of people behind, and I’m left with just us, the people on the bus.
My heart is like a kick drum against the songs in my mind, but it’s quiet enough for us to talk.
She tells me what to do.
It’s not easy and it doesn’t work at first, but then it does and my head is nearly quiet, the low grumble of guitars only barely audible in their new form.