Tomorrow, I’ll be awake to see the towns we’re driving through. We’re still in the eastern time zone, though. Too close to New York. It’s fine if I miss this part of the road trip.
Daphne goes through a Cod Pieces drive-thru when we’re about thirty minutes from tonight’s stop, and that pulls me out of my sleep again.
It’s possible the scent of fried fish is the only thing that would’ve done it.
Three empty MegaHit energy drinks are in the cupholders between and behind us, and she orders each of us a sweet tea to go with the fried fish.
“And extra hush puppies,” I insist.
She’s strangely quiet, to the point that I double-check that she didn’t change the destination on the GPS while I was sleeping.
She did not, and soon, she’s pulling up to the vacation rental house I booked for my second night of travel.
Pain in the ass to rent it, but I learned a lot about fake identities and prepaid credit cards while I was plotting my escape. Wish I’d booked all rental houses. This feels more securethan the hotel last night, though I’d prefer that the main house was farther away.
The listing made it sound as though there were several miles of rolling hills between the tiny house and the property’s primary family residence, but the main house is clearly in view across the rolling lawn, with several other neighborhood residences dotting the surrounding hills, all close enough that I could see if another person stepped out their doors or drove down their driveways.
Apparently I underestimated the size of five acres.
“Tell me you know the code to get in, or I’m peeing in the bushes,” Daphne says to me as she dances at the front door.
I move significantly slower with that greasy fish and french fries and the fried dough balls sitting heavily in my stomach for the second day in a row.
Worth it.
And disturbingly delicious.
I reach the door and pull out my burner phone—the one that only Archie has the number for—and pull up the email with the door code in it.
If Daphne wants to call me out for my electronics when I still won’t give her back her own phone, she doesn’t give any indication.
Possibly because as soon as I open the door, she dashes inside. “Bathroom, where are you?” she shouts.
I almost smile.
Maybe it’s the sleep and the fish—or maybe it’s gratitude that she was able to drive us today—but she’s growing on me as a travel companion.
“I’m sure it’s eager to answer you, as soon as the toilet learns how to talk,” I say.
She flips me off and dashes into a room behind the entrance door that honestly shouldn’t fit.
“Oh my god, the toilet isin the shower,” she says, the delight in her voice clearly coming through what is most definitely not a solid wood bathroom door.
Very, very not solid.
I can hear everything.
My stomach gurgles, heavy with the fish and chips and hush puppies, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
She might be growing on me, but not in every way.
“Should’ve stopped for the restroom at that last Quickie-Lickie,” she mutters as she attempts to set a record for the world’s longest piss. “I’m gonna get a kidney infection.”
“Unlikely from a single day of holding it,” I reply.
“Whoa. It’s like there’s a door, but there’s not, exactly like in the hotel. Is this a vacation rental, or did you buy the land and have this plopped down on the spot for the third night of your adventure?”
She’s still peeing.
