One is Not the Loneliest Number
For three hours I stared at the darkened highway just beyond the glow of the headlights, used one finger to hold the steering wheel straight, and stayed silent so as to not wake Shaun Guardado of Suicide Machine Co., curled into a ball in the fully reclined passenger seat. I listened to the audiobook version of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, Or the Evening Redness in the West for the fifth time, and as the sun climbed out from behind the Sierra Nevadas I was stung by words I know too well: “The way of the world is to bloom and...