They don't know where they are going. For the first time in a long time, for both of them, that is the point.
They are currently parked on the edge of the Great Basin, watching the stars bleed across a sky with no light pollution. Mav is sipping his thermos. Joey is strumming a chord that hangs in the cold air like a question. mav and joey
Joey grins at the memory. "I thought he was a cop for a second. But then he offered me a sandwich. Never say no to a free sandwich." They don't know where they are going
"Mav yells at me when I leave the door open because of the 'climate loss,'" Joey says, using air quotes. "But last week, when a tire blew out at 2 a.m., he didn't yell. He just handed me the jack and said, 'Turn left to loosen.' He trusts me with the heavy stuff." Mav is sipping his thermos
Joey nods. "Also, we hate the same things. People who speed up at yellow lights. Celery. And anyone who says 'it is what it is.'"
Joey has started a lo-fi album titled Static & Highways , sampling the sound of the Blazer’s engine and Mav’s muttered curses at construction zones. Mav, in turn, has started a journal—handwritten, fountain pen—chronicling "The Joey Effect," a theory that the universe rewards those who don't overthink their next turn.