We’re both quiet as we head out of Davis Square, toward 93. Traffic is crawling, but I’m hopeful it will pick up once we get to the highway. Thanks to the late start, we’re going to be cutting it close.

I steal a glance at Josie, who has her duffel bag resting on her lap. She’s hugging it to her chest like it’s a stuffed animal. I can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable or afraid her bag will get dirty.

The song on the radio ends and the DJ comes on the air. “That was ‘Shut It Down,’ by Marley Greene. Now for the traffic report, brought to you by Tabula Inscripta—where Boston gets lit. As in literature.”

Josie looks from the radio to me, excited—until she realizes that her competition is behind the wheel.

“You ran ads?” I ask, even though she obviously did.

Josie shrugs. “Sometimes you’ve got to spend money to make money.”

“Smart,” I say, wishing I’d thought of that. No wonder she’s winning.

We fall quiet again, and luckily the traffic dies down past Medford. I’m cruising at a respectable five miles over the speed limit as the trees blur past our windows.

“We should probably get to know each other,” Josie says, out of the blue. “Otherwise, your parents will think you picked me up off the street like a stray.”

“I was planning to tell them you were a hitchhiker.”

I can feel Josie’s fiery eyes on me, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her glare. Safety first—gotta keep my eyes on the road.

“Please tell me your parents know I’m coming.”

“They know I’m bringing someone,” I say. “A friend.”

“Friends know things about each other.”

“Wellll, I know you’ve been working at Tabula Inscripta for about five years; that you have one sister; that you drink triple Americanos, you always wear your hair up, and you have a penchant for big books.”

Now I steal a glance, and judging by how wide her eyes are, she’s shocked at my astute observational skills.

“What do you know about me?” I ask, remembering how just a month ago she didn’t know my name.

“I know you have a very loud laugh; you have two cats you can’t control, a ridiculous sweet tooth when it comes to your beverages, and a lot of stuff.”

I choose to ignore the thinly veiled insults. Mostly because I’m surprised that she actually has been paying attention to me.

“How about we fill in the blanks?” I suggest. “Where did you grow up?”

“Newburyport—but not the nice part. How about you?”

“Winchester. The nice part,” I admit.

“Not Maine?”

I shake my head. “We vacationed in Kennebunkport when I was a kid, and my parents bought a place there once they became empty nesters. How about siblings? One sister, right?”