the silver carabiner clipped to the shoulder strap of my backpack

the spine of my intro to physics textbook

a sports water bottle, gray

a plastic water bottle, clear

the turn signal lever

the windshield wiper lever

an audiobook CD case

the black registration binder in the glove compartment, which I would be the one to have to open.

DEVANTE

“Fucking stop it!” Tyrell screams out from the front seat. My head jerks up, every part of me suddenly alert and uncomfortable. We’re flying down the expressway, into the rising sun.

“I’m sleeping here,” I blurt out.

“Stop!”

The terror in Tyrell’s voice sets my heart racing. I blink. Robb laughs. My brain struggles to un-muddle the contrasting sounds. I scratch at some eye crust and try to catch up with the joke.

In the front seat, Tyrell is crying. Actual tears. What the—? Shit just got real and I slept through it.

“Guys?” I sit up straighter. The landscape blurs. We are seriously flying. I shift to peer over Robb’s shoulder. Holy fuck.

“Slow down,” I say. “That’s not funny.”

Robb grins. “Chickens.”

“You think this is a fucking joke?” I reach up from behind and take his shoulder. Pinch my fingers as hard as I can into his soft tissue. Then I start naming names. Sandra Bland. Philando Castile.

“Ow. Jesus. Okay, asshole.” He lets up off the gas.

Shae Tatum.

Many swirling thoughts in my still-sleepy brain collide. I release Robb’s shoulder. “You’re the asshole. You get where we’re going today, right?”

“Oh, please,” Robb says. “You’re with me. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Tyrell wipes his eyes. He glances at me in the rearview mirror, grateful. I stare back at him, promising. I won’t fall asleep again.

We’re not friends. We’ve barely ever had a conversation. But we’re together on this.

We are black men in America. We are trapped. We’re stuck in this car, in this flying metal box, a restricted space where we have no control.

We are at the mercy of yet another white guy who thinks he gets it, but he doesn’t.

ROBB

We are stopped at the side of the road. Tyrell kneels at the edge of the grass, trying to get his stomach back.

“Come on, let’s take it to the next exit. There’s gotta be a gas station or something.”

I’ve used up all the paper towels in my trunk trying to clean Tyrell’s mess. I really want to wash my hands.

“Give him a minute,” DeVante says. “For crying out loud.”

“I can’t believe you peed my car seat,” I tell Tyrell. It’s mostly on his jeans, but still. My car smells like piss now and it’s disgusting. We have to ride in there for another hour, and it’s going to dry before I can get it properly cleaned.

“Whose fault is that?” DeVante says. “You’re the one playing chicken with the highway patrol.”