17 REROUTED Megan Collom mine in the rearview mirror. I move the mirror downwards, I want to see her whole face. Her eyes trace the mirror’s movement. “Uhm—my Granny Patrice,” her voice shakes, she must be trying not to cry. “She old?” “She was 64?” “Oh, so she was sick,” “I’d rather—” “No no no, you can tell me.” Poor girl. The clasp of her necklace is showing, falling down her neck like a minute hand that has just passed four o’clock. She moves it back into place, threading the chain through her fingers until the clasp is seated behind her back. I wait for her attention to return. She’s quiet. “Well?” “She had Huntington’s,” she snaps. I feel the thud of her words. “Genetic, ain’t it?” She’s waiting by the crosswalk. Waving at me, she raises her arm as her dress lifts a couple inches higher. I tug at the steering wheel, driving Bonnie up to the curb. She looks good in black. The dress hugs her sides and dips at the neck, making room for antiquated pearls to rest on her protruding collar bones. Her hair-sprayed curls seem to reflect the billboard glow. I watch her hobble towards us. Her black heels look too big, like her feet are sliding in and out of them with each step. The door opens. She shuffles her things into the seat beside her and gathers her hair in front of her shoulders. I roll down the window to toss my cigarette. “Pelham Funeral Home please.” She etches a smile onto her face. I catch her eyes in my rearview mirror. They’re green, maybe blue. Her eyelashes are coated with mascara. She blinks her striking eyes away, gluing them to her phone. I watch her buckle her seatbelt, waiting to put Bonnie in reverse, wouldn’t want to risk anything right? The click of the clasp is my cue to click on my blinker. We drive. Head South towards Perkins Drive “So who died?” I ask. She’s quiet, looking at that damn phone again. She’ ll look up. “Hmph,” I cough, “Who died?” Her eyes flutter open, meeting
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