The
GPS returns us to the road in a rather roundabout way.
“Now
where are we going?” I ask.
“I
guess to Marlinton; there’s got to be someplace we can pitch a tent there.”
It’s
about 9:30pm. This is when things start
to go . . . wonky . . . for me. You remember how we only got a few hours of
sleep last night? Yeah; now is when that starts affecting us.
The
road twists and turns and the turns only get tighter and twistier the farther
we go. At some point my conscious mind
takes a backseat and my lizard brain takes over, reacting only to the commands
of the GPS and responding to the road before me, but nothing else. As soon as a turn is completed, it image of
it is wiped from my mind and no memory of it remains. All that registers is the new turn rushing
towards me in my little halo of visibility.
Nothing is taken in, nothing is processed, nothing returned.
We
go into Marlinton, and right through it.
The address Ally put into the GPS is for the Motor Inn—the cheapest
motel in the area. Her knee is pretty
stiff from being cramped in the Jeep since ten o’clock this morning, so she’d
prefer not to have to attempt popping a squat in the woods whilst wearing a
full knee brace again tonight.
All
booked up.
We
head back to Marlinton, toward an electric red sign advertising food and
lodging. Ally waits in the car.
All
booked up.
