The windows are down, even if it’s maybe a little too cold for it, tonight. Something slow and ethereal drifts out of the speakers. I don’t remember the words, but the feeling is right.

On the passenger seat, Rudy is curled up, the tip of his tail just over his nose. There’s a spider on the inside of the windshield.

For a half-breath I imagine the car ramping onto the curb and spinning through the air, the terrible silence just before we hit the ground, the spider perfectly still.

That happens a lot, the visions. They rarely come to pass.


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