It was the night of the worst heat wave of August, and the Buick was in the middle of nowhere. Well, really on the stretch of I-5 between Lost Hills and Buttonwillow, which is somewhere too far north of L.A. for interest and too close to Bakersfield for hope of anything better. In other words, the definition between that section of highway and nowhere was at best academic, and Mark, Jenny, Brad, and Troy were in no state to care since they had been driving from San Francisco non-stop, except to change drivers or get gas.
"What time is it?" Mark asked.
There was a pause and then Brad's voice came from the back seat. "1:39."
"Ick," Jenny said and leaned against the passenger window.
Mark gripped the steering wheel tighter and forced his eyes to open all the way. "I suppose Troy's still dead to the world?"
"How did you ever guess?" Brad said.
Mark sighed. "C'mon you guys. You've got to keep me awake. We should have got coffee back at that last place."
"I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee right now," Jenny slurred against the window.
"Me too," Brad said.
Mark yawned. "Me three."
Up ahead in the distance there was a shimmering light. As they got closer it resolved into a red neon sign:
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