Miles has dreams, sometimes.

Miles says something. Waylon says something back. Miles laughs. Waylon punches him. Hard.

You okay, Miles asks. mmrmhff, Waylon replies.

Waylon is not amused. Preslash

(that's not his voice)

There is tv snow and then there is nothing.

At the intersection of FM 804 and FM 607 and then to the west, a Library.

They're disconnected, the words tumbling through Miles' brain, puddles with afterthoughts, snippets of dreams.

Suddenly Sam wants to fill the room with chemical smoke, let it fill their lungs and their eyes, embalming them from the inside out and the outside in.

Miles is the one who drives but- It's Waylon who takes to the open stretch of road, the expanse of time swallowed by mile markers and radio fuzz, who sinks into the isolation that only traversing along the interstate brings.