It was to be the longest 11 minutes of his life.  Driving for the 8 hours previous was simple.  The sign read 11 miles to Grant and he was prepared to count off each second.  He began wondering if he should turn around and go back to Imperial.  How far had he gone?  It was a matter of principle, though, and he was simply too stubborn to retrace his tire tracks.
 The road looked like the "Lost Highway" spots he had seen on television.  The only light was a splotch from his headlights.  The lane markers ran underneath the car much too fast too count (she had been counting them in Kansas and multiplying the number by twelve.  [they had heard that the inventor the plastic lane bumps was paid three cents per, and they were interested in figuring out his exact fortune]).  Too fast to count, but Nebraska had none of the plastic bumps anyway.  Snow plows, I guess.
 Then he wanted to see David Byrne's familiar face, projected onto the pavement, spouting out the words to "Burning Down the House."  He missed relaxing in front of the television when MTV still played music videos.
 She finally spoke again.  "You couldn't have just said 'I hate your cat' or something like that?  I mean isn't that what normal, friendly people do?"  Her voice broke between syllables.  "You," she said.  You.  He recognized that word from past experience with her.  It only left her lexicon when accompanied by sheer frustration.  Never for fun.
 "You," he thought.  He was frowning and had his head slightly turned toward her.  He was hoping she'd see the uneasiness in his face.  Maybe she'd forgive him.  "No," he thought.  He knew he'd have to cry.
 She pulled and covered her head with the quilt his mother had made for her.  The thick-textured flannel had pulled her shirt past where her ribs began.  He glanced to his side, noticing her protruding stomach.  Before her, he used to think that two months wasn't enough to show.
 He stopped frowning.  He thought of the time his father had read an old letter from grandpa and how when his father started crying, he started crying.  He thought about how hard it had been to push out the tears at grandpa's funeral.
 "I'm gonna pull over up here in a ways," he said.  "I can't drive right now.  I'm shaking and stuff."
 A sign told them that there was only 4 miles to Grant.  He sniffed twice.  Sometimes, like when he needed to vomit (first he'd gag with his fist two fingers, then he'd inhale deeply, taking in the ammonia-like scent of urine left in the bolts and linoleum underneath the toilet), his crying just needed a catalyst.
 He hoped to hell that her head would emerge soon from beneath the blanket.  He had learned from experience that talking only made it worse.  He was a lawyer, by nature, but she was no juror.  She was a girl, and girls just like to fester.  Unless her head would come out from hiding, he'd almost have to say something.  It hurt not to talk.  Maybe that would help him to cry.  "Why won't she let me talk?"
 Finally a sign read "Welcome to Grant" and "Population 1,239."  The car slowed to a crawl as he rolled to a stop beside a giant sign reading "HOTEL FOR SALE."  The tires sounded like a quiet thunderstorm as they rolled through the gravel.
 "You probably don't want to stop out here," he said.  He made a U-turn and pulled back onto the main road, stopping just short of the "Traveler's Inn Motel" sign.  "Here."  He turned out the headlights, leaving the gearshift in neutral, and left the engine running.  It had to be well below freezing outside, especially with the wind.  The news at his brother's in Tulsa said it would be a –12 wind chill.  He took his foot off the brake pedal and pulled the lever of the emergency brake tightly.
 He put his mouth around the top of the steering wheel and bit hard.  "Cry, you sonofabitch.  Cry."  She unlatched her seatbelt and opened the passenger door.
 "Don't--hey, where'ya going?  Don't go anywhere."
 "I'll stay by the car," she said.
 Once she had gotten out he lowered the sun visor and watched his face in the mirror.  "Ugly," he thought.  "Cry, you peace of garbage.  Cry, because you're a piece of garbage."  Then he thought of her and turned.
 She was sitting up in a tiny ball, almost against the car, shifting forward and back like mad.  He killed the engine and left the keys on the driver's seat.  First he walked around the car so he could give her his big corduroy coat, and then covered her with the quilt his mother had made her.  He left his right arm on her shoulders.
 "Please don't touch me," she whispered.  He drew back his hand and looked up.  He saw every star that had ever been visible to the human eye in a February, in this hemisphere.  Part of the W shape in Cassiopeia pointed north.  He looked down.  She shivered and shook her head like mad.  He could hear her teeth chatter.
 "Hey," he said.  She didn't answer.  He put his hand on her shoulder.  "C'mon."
 "Let go!" she said.  He hadn't realized that she was sobbing.  It was in her voice.  He lifted his hand in horror and stood.  He watched her small form move to and fro, her head now between her knees.  A gust of wind blew through his hair and lifted the quilt from her back.  He felt the tears well up and he bit his lip.
 Shivering, he released a shriek inside his head.  He wanted to hurt himself.  Bang his head through the passenger window. Quickly, he lifted his shirt from his torso and dropped it on the ground.  He felt a powerful chill.  Then he unlatched his belt and dropped his jeans.  He began to shiver, staring up to his left.  Cassiopeia glittered above.  He couldn't see the other stars.  Only the five.  His body, his shoulders and his forearms, numbed.  Unconscious sobs left his mouth.
 Goosebumps lifted his sparse chest hair and his stomach flexed tightly underneath his folded arms.  He looked down at her, now tighter in her little ball.  He noticed her head begin to turn and he looked back up.  Cassiopeia was only a blur.
 "What'rya doing!" she said.  "Where's your shirt."  She jumped up and stood below him.  "Will you please put some clothes on?"
 He shook his head.  Anything but talk.
 "Hey, let's get in the car.  C'mon."
 He nearly fell, like when he used to do in potato-sack races as a kid, as he hopped once until he could lean against the car.  She almost forced him into the passenger side, sitting him down and dropping the quilt in his lap.  As she closed the driver's side door, she started the engine and set the heater to high.  He struggled to get his pants past his waist, from his sitting position, as he latched his belt, not buttoning his fly.  They sat in silence.  The only sounds came from the engine and the periodic clicking of the cassette they had left in the deck, having only turned the volume down.
 "Will you please put on your shirt?  You'll get pneumonia."  He sat there sobbing trying to remember the strong scent underneath the toilet.  "Please."  Finally he stirred, pulling and stretching the cold cotton shirt over his head.
 "Can you get out for a second?" she asked.
 It was freezing outside.  "Get out?" he questioned.
 "Please."
 She got out on her side and they met on his side.  She pulled him toward her.  Her touch was the trigger.  He cried loudly, nobody around to hear.  He bit hard into her soft shoulder and muffled his wails.  She was startled by his bite.  "What did I--" he said.  She pulled him closer.  "Why are you so--" He said her name, much the same way he had cried "mommy" so many times before.  He thought of his grandpa's funeral and let out a thundering howl.  This scared her and she squeezed him as hard as she could.
 While he gasped over and over she said "Shh."  They swayed as she shook him like a baby.  He tried to find Cassiopeia.  "Everything'll be okay," she said.  "Everything'll be okay."