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turds.”
    â€œPlus I now know far more about prison romance than I’d ever want. It pisses me off.”
    â€œBecause you’re prejudiced?”
    â€œNo, envious,” said Serge. “If I live to be three hundred, I’ll never figure out my own relationships, but jailhouse love is so straightforward. A nice ­couple is out in the exercise yard, then one wrong look and they’re hosing blood off the barbells. No room for nuance. But in the real world, it’s prolonged periods of the silent treatment and slamming doors, and me with that dazed look on my face: ‘I still have no idea what I did wrong.’ ”
    Coleman stubbed out a roach. “Like your ex-­wife?”
    â€œMolly said the key to bringing us closer was honesty, but that was a lie. ‘Serge, which of my friends do you think is the most attractive?’ ”
    â€œI was there when she asked that,” said Coleman. “I told her you thought Jill was super hot, remember?”
    â€œWhat the hell were you thinking?” said Serge. “It’s not like in prison. You can’t call the guards, can’t lock yourself in your cell, and definitely can’t let her even find a shank. No, when you’re married, you need a diplomatic advance team to vet a menu of highly polished responses.”
    â€œSo what was the right answer to her sexiest friend?”
    â€œ ‘It’s about to rain and I left my windows down!’ ”
    â€œWhat if it’s not going to rain?”
    â€œ ‘Don’t move! A spider!’ ” said Serge. “Making the effort to prepare multiple diversionary tactics shows you’re committed to the marriage.”
    The Comet turned south and approached the Florida state line.
    Bang, bang, bang .
    â€œSerge, you’re firing a gun out the window.”
    â€œIt’s the state line.” He stuck the pistol back in the glove compartment. “Road trips are all about tradition.”
    Coleman punched holes in an empty beer can to make it a pipe. “When did you first get interested in road trips?”
    â€œI was three,” said Serge. “It was the weirdest thing, but for some reason I spent my entire preschool life in utter dread after becoming aware of a simple, existence-­consuming truth: ‘If all the adults suddenly disappear, I’m totally fucked.’ ”
    â€œGoes without saying,” said Coleman.
    â€œYears of sheer panic. Parents usually keep a close eye on their kids, but with me it was the opposite, staying glued to them in department stores in case they tried to ditch me. Meanwhile, I continued work on my exit strategy. If they ever did vanish, the only hope was to make a marathon road trip to the secret land where all the survivors had set up shop. First, I already had a tricycle, so I could check transpo off the list. Then before the next Christmas, I told my parents—­and I was extremely emphatic about this—­‘All I want is a Frosty Sno-­Cone Machine and a Matchbox Car collecting briefcase.’ And my folks said, ‘That’s it?’ And I said, ‘Believe me, it’ll be enough.’ And I kept grabbing them tight by the collar each time I reminded them. ‘You absolutely must get these items for me!’ And they’re like, ‘Okay, okay, Serge. Jeez! Why do you want this stuff so bad?’ Obviously I couldn’t tell them that it was in case they died or were part of a conspiracy, so I just said I had my reasons and it was personal.”
    â€œDid you get the stuff?”
    â€œIt got hairy leading up to Christmas. Most kids are filled with the ecstasy of anticipation, but for me it was the jitters of self-­preservation. That morning I ran from my bedroom in a freak-­out until I saw those two gifts under the tree, and I exhaled in relief: ‘Now I can live.’ Before my parents were even up, I cut the cardboard dividers for the