18 “I’d rather not think about this right now.” “That’s one of them diseases without a cure right?” Her glare echoes her words, I understand. I turn my eyes towards the road instead of the mirror, I figure she’d like some privacy. There’s a red light up ahead. The red light glows above us in the New York sun. It buys me a second of time to glance behind me. Her phone has a wallet stuck to the case, her driver’s license sticks out from the third card slot. The left hand corner reads Kansas. MART is all I can decipher of her name. It’s a sweet nickname, she’ ll like that. I lunge over the middle console, keeping my right foot firmly on the brake. Bonnie rocks as I reach for my glovebox. Mart clutches the handle above her. The latch pops open. I sift through the crumpled road maps and past insurance slips until my hand lands on a red plastic CD case. The light turns green—I open the CD case. My handwriting is scribbled across the silver disk: United Methodist Church Hymn Collection. I’m a bit of a church-goer. I slip the CD into the disc slot to dispel the static of Bonnie’s breaking stereo. Clicking through the tracks, I create a metronome for the honking cars behind me. Mart kicks my seat just enough to break me out of my haze. I release the brake, speeding up to catch the cab in front of me. Continue onto Peace Bridge “Amazing Grace” has been playing for the last fifteen minutes—the CD must’ve gotten scratched. Mart seems to like it though. She’s been sniffling to herself for around ten of the fifteen minutes. Bonnie hurries across the interstate held up by the green iron of Peace Bridge. Mart looks out the window, mumbling the lyrics to Bishop Kenny’s version of “Amazing Grace.” “You religious?” I ask her. She stiffens, sitting up straight before she answers. “I guess so,” she says. “You guess so?” “I mean I grew up Catholic—” “Did Granny?” “Sorry?” “You know, Granny Patrice?” “I’m not sure, I mean we were never that close—” “I suppose that’s good. Should make it easier for ya if she ended up in Hell.” The car goes cold, the only sound left cars whizzing past us. Mart shoots me a nasty look, I feel it creeping down my throat. Damnit, Shawn. I hit the center of the steering wheel. It lets out a gasp of squeaking air—my horn broke a couple of months
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