“Any preferences on the music?” “No,” she replies, helping herself to my phone charger. “Sorry, my battery is dying.” “Okay, well it’s gonna get a bit windy,” I say. “You might wanna—” “I know how Jeeps work,” she huffs, clicking her seatbelt on. We both go still as we sit in the silence of her response. Then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, shit—I’m so sorry. That was the bitchiest thing to say ever.” “It’s okay—” “No, I’m so sorry, I’m just—god—I’m so tired,” she says, a note of desperation in her voice. “I think I might be getting a bit delusional.”
