It's been two weeks since I've shaved. I'm starting to look the part of someone who lives on the road. Or someone who does crack. Then again, the two aren't mutually exclusive; and who am I to rob people of their prejudices?

It's also been two weeks since our visit to Bobby. I'm making an attempt not to think about it. Following Dee's example more than anything. But given that I've been waking up in cold sweat with my left arm numb and my neck feeling perfectly fine, it's safe to say that some doors you can never really close. Sure, I don't remember the dreams themselves, but I can guess the contents. The guess alone brings back memories of the real deal.

Still. I'm making an attempt not to think about it.

I get dressed and step out of the camper.

There's a faint breeze. The air is cool, but not cold. The sky is tainted in a shade of pink, with the sun just around the corner. Yet, I can still hear the crickets. The calls of distant owls. The night is retreating, but its stillness lingers.

"You're up early."

Dee's sitting a little further ahead, near the edge of the hill we've parked on. I grab the other folding chair and limp on over.

The view isn't all that impressive. The little town just down the hill is Deer Springs. Calling it a town is a bit generous, frankly. It feels more like a pit-stop. The buildings are all scattered and barely maintained, aside from the handful people actually live in. Only the street lamps in front of the hospital and the bar seem to work properly. The rest either flicker or don't work at all.

There's a single car riding the streets at this hour. He's sticking to the main road. The gas pedal's cranked. Trouble? Maybe a drug deal gone wrong. Frustration? Maybe a teenager who doesn't want to end up like his dad. Love? Maybe a pair of old souls wanting a chance at something different. Whatever the cause is, the end result is the same: escape.

That's the thing about pit-stops. You're not supposed to stay there forever.

"I had a bad dream." The chair squeaks as I sit down.

"Mm, yeah?"

"We were a couple. Old. You'd just have your 80th birthday. We were living in a small town, stuck in a retirement home and wanting for some excitement. So we started peddling contraband for a local crime boss."

"Ooh. What'd we sell?"

"Gummy bears. The purest shit. Unfortunately, we started taking some for ourselves. When we weren't eating them ourselves, we were giving it away to the others in the home. Except Nancy. She didn't deserve any. That bit us in the ass, though. She tipped off the crime boss about what we were doing after you won bingo night. We had to make a run for it."

"Where to?"

"Where else?" I grin. "The Moon. We crash-landed, though, and died immediately on impact. And there were zombies somewhere in there, I'm pretty sure."

She leans forward, resting her head in her hand. "That wasn't so scary."

"Hey, not all nightmares have to be SCARY scary."

"And if this had been an actual nightmare you had, I'd agree."

I shrug. "You put me on the spot."

"You put yourself on the spot." she says. "Still, I guess you could argue that old age is scary in its own right."

She looks at me. "Ever thought about growing old? How it'd feel, I mean?"

"Not sure if you've figured it out, but I'm not really the type to plan ahead too much." I admit. "I guess, whenever I do reach it, that whole existential dread of impending death won't be as bad for me."

"Sure it will. You'll be scared of where you end up." she points out.

"Maybe. Maybe I won't care."

"Maybe you'll convince yourself you don't care, but then end up as an electric toothbrush on Trash Island or something and realize how bad it is."

"Better than worrying about something I can't control, anyway." I lean back. Not a cloud in the sky. I can see the trail of an airplane, but not the plane itself.

"What about you?" I ask. "Did you reach it? Old age, I mean."

"No." she says simply, and I dare not ask more.

I sniff. "Sorry. I—"

She snaps her fingers. "You know what you need right now?"

"What?"

"A smoke. You look just like the type of guy that'd walk out of his camper, cigarette dangling from his mouth, kicking back and watching the sunrise."

"I don't smoke."

"But the aesthetics!"

"I'd look like I'm brooding more than anything."

"Nah, you've got it all wrong." She straightens up, crossing her legs. "Cigarettes aren't used exclusively for brooding. They're cool in general. You just think brooding is, like, the coolest, so you misunderstand."

"I don't brood."

"Listen, think of it like this, right? Batman smokes. If you smoke, you'll be 100% like Batman."

"We've been over this." I remind her. "Batman doesn't smoke."

"Okay, well, fine. But one of the fifty Robins probably does."

"I don't disagree, but I also don't want to be Robin."

"As a hardcore Batman fan," she scoffs, "I am shocked and appalled that you don't think Robin is cool."

I try to be fair. "Dick Grayson's alright, I guess."

"Oh, no worries trying to emulate him, then."

"Because I'm already a dick." I sigh. "Right."

She laughs. I laugh, too.

"I jumped off a bridge." The laughter stops, suddenly. "I wasn't old. I wasn't young, either, exactly, but no — I didn't reach old age."

I don't know what to say.

She turns back to the town. The street lights got shut off at some point. It's only a dark spot now, resting beneath us. Like a black hole waiting to suck both of us in.

"Ever since we set off," she continues, "I've been asking myself is someone's ended up in my body. It's still probably in the river somewhere. If they took it right after I drowned, it still would've been intact. So, I wonder if they pulled themselves out, looked through my pockets, found my ID, went to my place, said 'Hi' to my boyfriend and simply — continued living life as me. If they did, would they be better? A better girlfriend? A better daughter? More caring? More understanding? Should I feel good about that? Or should I be miserable that I had everything I needed to be happy and just didn't know how to use it? Or should I be angry that someone else got to be me?"

I scratch the back of my head.

"It's not always porn. When I'm on the computer, I mean." she bites her lower lip. "I didn't have any, like, social media. There's barely any trace of me out there. There isn't any news of me dying or even disappearing. No mention of me from any of the people I knew. Not even my boyfriend. I mean, in the long run, it's a lot more realistic that nobody really cares whether I'm dead or not, right?"

I shake my head. "That's not true."

She chuckles. "But I keep, like, checking and checking and checking — for some kind of sign or confirmation that it happened, you know? That there's someone else in there now. Like, I'm always waiting for that moment where I'll see a photo of myself, walking around, smiling, and see that it was taken like, two hours earlier, or something. It's my worst fear, but I keep chasing it. It's like I'm hoping for it just as much as I'm scared of it. I think it's gotten worse since the forest."

I get up.

"No, wait, Juice, I'm—I'm sorry, I made it weird, let's just back up."

"I'll be back in a sec." I tell her.

I head back to the camper and rummage through the pile of random goods we'd stolen over the months but never had a real reason to use. I find the two things I need and head back out.

"First and last one, alright?" I throw the cheap plastic lighter to her.

I pull one of the cigarettes out with my teeth, sit back down and lean over to her.

"Well?" I say. "You wanna do the honors?"

She grins, lighting that sucker up.

I take a drag. I never had this brand, but it's pretty smooth.

"Liar." she says. "'First,' my ass."

I let a cloud of smoke escape my mouth before handing the cigarette over to her.

"I don't breathe." she reminds me.

"Then don't inhale. Or just let it dangle from your mouth. That's the aesthetic, right?"

She takes it. "I don't really fit it, actually."

"Don't conform to the absurd standards other bums living in their cars set, dammit. Be your own woman."

"Be my own woman, huh." She puts the cigarette in her mouth.

"Yeah. Because, I mean." What do I mean? "I don't know. I guess this is the part where I give some kind of cool speech that dispels your worries. The stuff you need to hear. But I've never really been good at those. What I want to say is that, to me, you're incomparable. You're you. And nobody gets to take that away. Even if they take your body. Just like you're no more Abigail than you are a hamster. You might think that doesn't count for much, or that you're flawed, or that you fucked up in the past, or that you're hated or whatever. But you're still here. And this is Chapter Two. And now I'm here. And I think you're pretty cool."

She opens her mouth, letting smoke drift outside, carried with the breeze. "Says he doesn't wanna give a speech. Proceeds to give a speech."

"I didn't say that. I said—"

"I know. The truth is, though, the stuff we need isn't written somewhere in the universe. Everyone just takes their best shot. There's nothing you could've said. There's nothing I expected you to say. But you said it, anyway. And while it doesn't make me less anxious, and while nothing has really changed in the long run, I do feel better hearing it. Thank you."

She hands the cigarette over to me.

"You're welcome." I mutter.

Taking another drag, I look back up.

Dawn's faded away. Not a trace of pink.

Blue skies, all around.