I take an almost panicky second breath of air and smoke.

Keep it there.

Another sad exhalation. Two more iterations but the cumulative effect is the opposite of what I’m expecting, making me jittery, on edge.

I turn on the interior light and examine the pack. A comical English explorer in shorts and pith helmet. Faros. Had them before-when I was a teenager Mexican cigarettes were the only affordable luxury you could get. Uncle Arturo managed to find Marlboros, but my father said that Faros and Rivas were just as good. I must be so nervous that I’m way beyond their power to relax me.

At the bottom of the Faros packet, there is, however, something that looks like a fat joint. I take it out and sniff it. Grade-A narc from Canada-Paco must have stolen it somehow. Maybe the night of the party.

It would be very tempting to light it up, but I should probably save that for after. One of those and I’d be on my ass for hours.

I put it away. Check the clock: 6:06 and still as dark as ever.

A breeze cuts through the door and I pull it fully closed. In brittle Euro-trash an annoyed disembodied voice tells me to fasten my seatbelt. I try to ignore it but it grows increasingly demented. “Fasten seatbelt, fasten seatbelt, fasten seatbelt.”

I fool the computer by clicking and quickly unclicking the belt.

“Seatbelt secured,” the computer sighs with relief.

Clock says 6:08.

I put the cigarettes in the backpack and kill the headlights.

Quick scan through the radio stations. Country. Religious. Country. News. Country. Religious. I nix the radio and max the heat.

Nothing to do now but wait.

I wait.

A gust rustling the tree branches along the ridge.

A starlit vapor trail.

Kicking from inside the trunk.

The radio again, a Nebraska station playing polka. A ten-thousand-watt Jesus station out of Laramie.