Dylan sighed heavily. He rubbed his palm along his jaw. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” She was still worried about whatever it meant for him that he hadn’t called Rick.

“I am.” He gestured at her iPod propped in the cup holder. “Passenger picks the tunes.”

She wasn’t in the mood to listen to fifties music. She also didn’t want to decide what to play. But she could take his mind off Rick.

Bypassing the iPod, she turned on satellite radio and hooked a finger on the tuner dial. “Whichever channel we land on we stick with for the next hour. Agree?”

Dylan grimaced and Joy almost laughed. They could get stuck listening to the Wiggles on Radio Disney or whiny ballads on Sirius XM Love. He nodded. “Go for it.”

“You’re a good sport.” She grinned, feeling her mood lift. “Here goes nothing.”

Joy counted down—“Three . . . two . . . one”—and Dylan lifted his chin, scratching his neck. He kept his gaze locked on the dash screen. She yanked her finger down, and like the Wheel of Fortune, the dial spun and landed on ’70s on 7.

“Yes!” they shouted in unison. Joy thrust her hands up to the canvas top, then clapped. Dylan held up his fist and she gave him a bump, grinning broadly. Dylan loved that decade. He wouldn’t be able to resist singing along. She was a lucky gal. The ride into Chicago just got a whole lot livelier.

Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” kicked in and Dylan slowly grinned, shaking a finger at her. “You rigged the tuner dial.”

“You wish. Luck of the draw, friend. That’s karma.” She gestured at the dash screen.

“Whatever,” he said, but he was still smiling. Happy Dylan was more fun than Mr. Dark and Moody. “The day just got brighter, wouldn’t you say?”

“Brilliant like the risin’ sun.”

“Damn straight,” he agreed, launching into Heaven’s Door’s iconic lyrics, harmonizing with Bob Dylan’s scratchy voice.

Joy’s mouth fell open. Their voices sounded incredible together. “Omigosh, Dylan!”

He grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t leave me hanging. Sing with me, Joy.”

Joy belted out the lyrics and Dylan started driving. She sang along with him on every tune that aired, from Creedence Clearwater Revival to ABBA. About an hour in, fat raindrops splatted on the windshield. King Harvest’s “Dancing in the Moonlight” came on.

Her mouth formed an O, her eyes going just as big and round. She looked at the dash screen, then up at the rain-splattered windshield, then over at Dylan. Their eyes met. He grinned.

“Karma, Joy. Side trip!” He swerved onto the side of the highway, slamming on the brakes. He lunged out his door, the car still running, and ran around the front.

What the heck was he doing?

He yanked open her door and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Here? Now?”