At one point on the tape, Loudermilk meekly informs his protean instructor that he is “concerned about [his] future.” He says he’s worried about his grades, plus his personal relationships and employment prospects. He wants to know how he can “do better.” He says he’s stressed out about reproducing the bullish America he grew up in. He’s having trouble negotiating the unpredictable “peaks and valleys” of romantic intimacy, not to mention the color-coded shimmy of the terrorism threat advisory scale.

If you think you know Loudermilk, then you think that when he says one thing he really means something else. If you actually know Loudermilk, then you know that when he says something that’s pretty much exactly what he means.

Overall, Harry Rego is not that inclined to pity his friend.

They’ve been driving now for two days.

They have traced the southern hem of Lake Erie and powered past Gary, Indiana, but here in the home stretch the Land Cruiser’s CD player has at last shit the bed. They’ve been reduced to radio and tape deck, which, considering Loudermilk’s need to micromanage the acoustic environment, has been very nearly cataclysmic. In order to maintain a sense of calm within the vehicle, Harry has been forced to shell out twenty dollars to acquire a pair of overpriced but essentially listenable cassettes, one the Breeders and the other from Ike and Tina Turner’s late catalogue, at an Illinois truck-stop establishment called the Bucket. “Nutbush City Limits” is just embarking on its third consecutive rotation when a sign announcing the relative proximity of the city of Crete appears.

Harry’s extremities are at least 99.9 percent zombie meat, due to extended confinement and Loudermilk’s enthusiasm for AC. He should by all accounts be psyched to put this journey behind him, but instead the news of their impending arrival sends a knot of fear into his stomach—which organ commences methodically punching itself—as his tongue takes on an increasingly profound flavor of humid roadkill.

Harry boots violently into an empty Super Big Gulp.

“Dude,” Loudermilk says.

“Pull over.”

“Dude, we’re almost there.”

Harry heaves again.

Loudermilk powers down all four windows. He removes his seat belt and uses his knees to steady the wheel while he leans over and trawls the debris on the back-seat floor.

Harry gags. Something trickles up, and he spits it into the beige half liter he has already produced.

“Fuck!” Loudermilk is proclaiming. He is not having great success in his quest for whatever it is.

The Land Cruiser lists casually into oncoming traffic. Harry, cowed by nausea and dread, attempts to accept his own imminent demise, even as he regrets that someone as life-loving as Loudermilk is about to be deprived of a future, not to mention the innocents they are likely to take with them.

“You see a fucking lid over there?” Loudermilk shouts against the wind and tambourine and blasting climate control.