Everything We Don't Know. Aaron Gilbreath

the hills wasn’t easing our discomfort. With wobbly legs and dilated pupils, we stood up and drove down the mountain.

      None of the town’s few gas station and grocery store parking lots felt safe, so we parked on the dirt shoulder of a rural road. Neither of us knew if angel dust precluded sleep, but we lowered the front seats anyway, spread blankets over our partially dressed bodies, drank a beer, and closed our eyes.

      Right as I started to doze, Dean nudged my shoulder. “Did you feel that?” he said.

      I looked out from under the pillow, said, “What?”

      “The car move.” He sat up. Blankets fell around him. “It felt like something rammed the car, like another car.”

      We cupped our hands on the cool glass and stared through the windows without unrolling them. Darkness spilled around us. Cows. Fences. “The whole van moved,” he said. “You didn’t feel that?”

      I hadn’t felt a thing.