“Navigator! Wake the fuck up!”
“Huh? Oh. Turn left at the Piggly Wiggly; there’s a diner two block down that makes great pie.”
Poor Ivan. He got my depressed migraine-addled ass as a navigator. Only my sarcasm remains intact. I feel his eyes on me; he’s incredulous.
A 1969 Mustang on steroids enters his peripheral, and he squeezes some kind of lever. I hear an explosion, but we continue, unhindered, through thick, black smoke.
“That was awesome,” I offer, feeling a twinge of excitement.
He tries to hold back a smile. So do I. There’s still hope for a win.