It's hot out.

It's not sweltering, but it's hot. In Roy Angelo's dad's 78 Pontiac Firebird, with the top down, it doesn't feel like it - pushing 85 on i-70 nearing St. Louis. And up ahead, grimly, it looks like it's going to rain.

You have some options.

You could grumble about how, yet again, your best friend Roy is taking you over state lines - this time at least 2 hours longer than the last, you posit, though the car doesn't have a clock, and your watch is a tick slower than it should be. And you could bitch and moan about how he always gets these ideas - fleeting, but convinced and potent - about places to go and things to do. About the world outside of KC. About anything.

Or you could point out that it looks like it's gonna rain.

You choose the easier path - you tell him,

"We should put the top down soon."

"What?"

"I SAID," you repeat through the rushing winds, "WE SHOULD PUT THE TOP DOWN."

"It's fiiiine," he drawls, though you barely hear it. "Rain won't get us. We're going too fast."

As you slow down some 20 minutes past nearing the city, the downpour hits.