Sevario drives like a mad man!

He's from a big city. He knows traffic. He battles it.

I'm not from a big city, and I live on the outskirts of time and geography, watch out for reindeer and hard weather.

By Tacoma, we're out of talk again. Traffic streams through town, and then we're back on the outskirts, passing car dealerships and auto-body repair shops and sex-toy stores. Get all your shopping done at once.

I grip the arm rest and try to move so that he can't tell.

"You're nervous."

"Up here--we need to take this exit."

He sidles the car across three lanes of traffic and onto the ramp to Highway 520. Now we're at the choke point, and we crawl the bridge through Portage Bay. It's beautiful--one of my favorite views.

I want to ask Sevario more about this meeting, or interview, that he has. But I'm afraid I won't understand any of the details. For the fifty-second time I wonder what we're doing. And he puts his hand on my thigh and he hums a little tune and the sun burnishes the lake.

Why do I need to know what we're doing?

Because I need to know where I'm going next, and who I'm going with. I've been floating down the currents for seven years and I'm almost 30 and yes, I miss Henry. Yes, it's been easy to dream about a life with him--safe because it's impossible. But now I'm sitting in a car with a man who lives hundreds--and hundreds--of miles away from anywhere I stay, and he swerves into the left lane.