Long stretches of silence. Taut at first, the way it is between two people who just met.
Easier when the sun comes up, and the roadside streams by us. I begin to feel comfortable.
I'd feel better asking questions, but we've been through the usual inquiries after family and work and his recent travels and my mother's health and my sister's reticence.
"Your sister doesn't like me."
Becky has been very formal, distant--the way you'd treat someone you just bumped into accidentally on the train.
"It isn't that. She doesn't know you. She just needs to worry about something, and Mom's doing better, so she's back to worrying about me."
"I don't want her to worry."
We round the edge of the Sound, join the Interstate's northward rush.