5:27. This time he walked completely out of sight of the car. Past stripe forty-two. They continued on unceasing. From his perch in the car, he had thought the world ended on stripe forty-two, so thoroughly had his mind convinced him of this, but no. The road just continually drifted on. Its termination point now beyond his imagination. He ventured on to eighty-four and stopped. No use going any farther. No significance in counting.
He turned back to the car and suddenly felt exposed, as if he was being watched. He looked around, but could see nothing. It was the feeling of turning off the basement light and becoming acutely aware of the blackness as a person walks up the stairs. Suddenly he wanted to get back to the safety of the Mustang oven. He walked briskly, almost at a trot, until his heat-wasted muscles halted him.
What was he doing? Imagining things? There was nothing out here. Complete and absolute nothingness. He felt comforted and courageous when he hit line forty-two.
Jack walked back toward the car and for a moment thought that Laura wasn’t there, but soon he could make out her face through the windshield. His source of guilt. The gaunt face staring back at him. He got back in the driver’s seat and rested his legs.
The water was running low and they had finished the bag of stale chips hours ago. His stomach started cramping, and he could not tell if it was hunger pangs or his intestines slowly constricting in knots of dehydration.
“Jack, how much water do we have left?”
“One bottle.”
“That’s not that much.”
“I know.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Here, have a little bit.”
“Okay.”
He watched her as she took a short drink. He wanted to rip the bottle from her hands and chug every last drop. She handed it to him for his turn, but he put the cap back on. He was keeping score in his mind. Preserving his share of the twenty ounces until the end. Hoarding.
“I’m so hot.”
“I know.”
Silence filled the vacuum between them.
“I’m scared, Jack,” she whispered.
“I know.”