The fan belt broke in Nevada, so Sylvie stripped her tights off and secured them in its place. In Arizona we swerved to avoid a skunk, and the brake pedal snapped off, leaving only a stump. She unbuckled her sandal and jammed it on hard, piercing the flimsy sole. In Texas the trunk lid flew off, scattering our baggage behind us. We re-secured it, but the rope wasn’t long enough to tie to the car.
She gave me the end.
“Hold this. Tight.”
Then the gas gauge needle quivered on E, but Sylvie ignored it, staring down the unbroken desert ahead.