Her sleep is black and formless, flirting with deep restoration. The rumble of the van and the soreness in her neck wake her up every so often, then she sinks immediately back under. It's impossible to know how much time has passed when she can swear that songs are being replayed. She seriously doubts that Frank likes this music. He must be sustaining it for the sake of her lullaby.

Letting her rest also lets her get away from old, old memories that haven't merited mentioning. Jess hasn't gone on a long car trip since the accident in her childhood. It's not an issue, she convinced herself, but if it isn't, why hasn't she ever taken a road trip? There were offers in her twenties. She could always devise an excuse and the excuse was always true. And the heart of the matter was deftly avoided.

Asleep, she doesn't have to worry about remembering a single second of it. It might be an inane, short flash of detail, like the reaching of her mom's hands or the anger in her dad's voice, but it wouldn't be harmless.

Half-asleep is doing the job too. Blearily, she sneaks a peek or two once they're on the open road. When the trees beside them thicken into legitimate forest, she figures they must be closer to their destination than they are far. Whether or not he's obeying the limit, the vehicle is flying. Jess indulgently continues to rest until the tires grind onto dirt. She's grown sick of half the album, announcing she's awake by jamming the volume knob down with her palm to turn off the CD player.

"This us?" she asks, squinting down at Rocky instead of ahead through the windshield. He's silent, breathing shallowly, awake and in denial.