Most of what I eat is convenience store food. It’s not amusing. It’s just convenient. I have a hard time holding my tongue about how he chewed up good daylight laboring over his junk food choices. But then he smiles between bites of fossilized Zagnut—“Want some? It’s disgusting!”—and I feel like I have to play along and pretend all of this is novel and fun, the way you don’t tell other kids the truth about Santa after you know. It’s not fair to ruin the end of the movie for everyone else. But the end of his movie is better than mine. It’s not something I have to think about when I leave after one night, but it’s sad to see up close. I feel like I’ve found a new kind of lonely.

“That’s okay,” I tell him, shrugging off the Zagnut. “I’ll let you keep that all to yourself.”

“It’s so stale!” He laughs, and crumbs of decaying chocolate spray from his mouth. This is an adventure to him, and I will myself to feel the same way. I want to believe there will still be newness in the world for me. That it’s not all faded and dusty. A few miles later, I look over, and he’s rocking out to some horrible shouty song with a pseudo-Egyptian riff, grinning like a dog who escaped the pound. Knowing I’ve made him so happy helps tame the churn in my stomach and kills the urge to leave him in the next rest stop bathroom. I like him. I swear, I do. But it’s hard to like someone. It’s a job that’s never quite finished.

“Hey,” Justin says, pointing toward an exit sign. “Do you think the water is warm enough in New Jersey?”

I laugh, thinking he’s making a joke, but when I look over, his face is serious.

“No,” I say carefully. “I don’t think that’s south enough for swimming in spring.”

“Oh.”

And then, “Do you think we can stop? For a restroom?”

After we get back in the car, he falls asleep. His mixtape runs to the end and I’m left to my thoughts and the road noise.